


All the Right Moves

by cherrystreet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Louis, M/M, Rimming, Top Harry, how, there's no angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrystreet/pseuds/cherrystreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the third game in a row that Harry has been distracted by the noisy boy in the stands, five rows back.</p><p>There’s really no reason that he should feel compelled to stare into the audience as frequently as he is, but he can’t help it. This boy is a nuisance. And he’s loud. Even from basketball court with nine other players running by him, shoes squeaking on the shiny hardwood floor, and thousands of cheering college students, Harry can hear this boy nearly shrieking, his laugh more like a cackle than anything.</p><p>It’s seriously obnoxious.</p><p>---</p><p>  <a href="http://cherrystreet.tumblr.com/post/145284413462/title-all-the-right-moves-author-cherrystreet">Tumblr</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love note to anyone who has stuck around through all of my over-the-top angst and sadness, so here's a story of nothing but happiness.

This is the third game in a row that Harry has been distracted by the noisy boy in the stands, five rows back.

There’s really no reason that he should feel compelled to stare into the audience as frequently as he is, but he can’t help it. This boy is a nuisance. And he’s loud. Even from basketball court with nine other players running by him, shoes squeaking on the shiny hardwood floor, and thousands of cheering college students, Harry can hear this boy nearly shrieking, his laugh more like a cackle than anything.

It’s seriously obnoxious.

The first time Harry noticed Loud Mouth was two weeks ago on a Monday. He was sitting in the same section he’s sitting in today, but several rows further back, and the same friend with jet black hair accompanied him, same bored expression on his face. Loud Mouth refused to do the wave with the rest of his section, and only decided to jump in once everyone on his side of the arena was sitting, throwing his hands in the air and screaming, clearly - and understandably - embarrassing his friend. Harry watched as the friend had turned red and grabbed Loud Mouth’s arm to yank him back down into his seat, but that had only seemed to spur him on. He continued to yell out, “Aye!” an uncomfortable five seconds after the wave passed his section each time, arms up in the air, and eventually, the friend slumped down so far into his seat that Harry couldn’t see his face anymore.

The second time, he was even less subtle, believe it or not. He painted his face the college’s colors, half of his face white, half blue, and he blew a fucking air horn every time someone on their team scored. He managed to make it halfway through the first half until one of the referees demanded he either hand over the horn or leave. Loud Mouth chose to stay, unfortunately, and made up for his lack of noise maker by using his own personal noise maker. How he didn’t lose his voice is a mystery. Absolutely and truly astounding.

It’s game number three of being graced by Loud Mouth’s presence, and Harry is so irritated, he can hardly pass the basketball without whipping it. Harry looks up after he passes the ball to Marcus, just in time to see Loud Mouth nail his friend in the face with a hand full of popcorn, shrieking maniacally. Harry rolls his eyes, and tunes back in to the sound of his coach screaming at him from the sideline to get his head out of his ass and get into position.

It’s just after halftime when Loud Mouth begins ringing a cowbell.

“Good fucking grief,” Harry mumbles under his breath, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. “How did he manage to get a fucking cowbell in here?”

“Ignore him,” Ryan says, slapping Harry on the back as he runs by.

“Yeah, seriously,” Clay yells over his shoulder, “don’t know why you’re letting Tomlinson get to you, anyway.”

“Huh?” Harry asks. He stands there, looking back up at the stands again, and that’s when the basketball drills him in the side of the face, knocking him to the ground.

The crowd collectively lets out an  _ Oooh, _ and he climbs back to his feet, dizzy and embarrassed. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to regain focus, but it’s nearly impossible when Loud Mouth - Tomlinson, evidently - is ringing that Goddamned cowbell as if his life depends on it.

Harry might actually kill him.  
  


* * *

  
He plays like shit for the rest of the game, faltering three more times in two minutes thanks to Tomlinson, and that’s when his coach finally pulls him out.

“It’s like you’ve forgotten how to fucking use your hands,” he punches out, putting Liam in as Harry’s replacement.

“Sorry,” Harry says, wiping his forehead sweat off with the back of his arm. He reaches for a Gatorade from under the bench. “I’m distracted.”

“I can fucking see that,” his coach grunts, refocusing his attention back to the game.

Harry groans. If this is going to cost him his spot as captain for next year, he will truly feel no remorse when he’s strangling Loud Mouth to death. He had it coming.  
  
  
  
After the game, which they narrowly win by a mere three points, Harry sits in the locker room, watching as his coach turns a nasty shade of red, clearly unappreciative of the new win under their name.

“It was an embarrassment, watching you out there today, Styles,” he barks out.

Harry can’t even argue. “I know.”

“What the hell happened to you?!”

Clay snickers. “Or who the hell happened to you.”

Coach sneers. “What was that?”

Clay immediately backtracks. “Nothing, Coach.”

He continues his rant, picking on Kenny, now, and Harry lets out a sigh of relief to be out of the spotlight.

They spend another hour in the locker room, Coach wrapping up his shouting after about 20 minutes, and after, Harry stands in the shower for way too long, his skin pruned and red by the time he drags himself out.

He wraps a towel around his waist and heads back toward the lockers, Clay and Liam lingering with their bags over their shoulders.

“Waiting on me?” he asks, shaking out his hair.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re alright,” Liam says with a shrug. “You were super off today.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t let him bother you.”

“Coach? Nah, I expected it.”

“No, not Coach. Louis.”

“Who the hell is Louis?”

Clay smirks and joins in. “Louis Tomlinson. The guy you can’t seem to shake.”

Harry frowns. “That dick in the crowd? Why am I the only one who can’t stand him?”

“He’s fucking hysterical. He was in my biology seminar last year.”

“I don’t care if he’s funny in biology. He  _ isn’t _ funny when I’m trying to block a shot and end up on my ass instead.”

“Harry, he’s just being Louis, he means no harm,” Liam says. “You would probably love him, actually.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Extremely doubtful.”

“I don’t know why you can’t just ignore him,” Liam continues, tying his shoelaces.

“He’s  _ loud! _ ”

“Yeah, so? The entire crowd is loud,” Clay adds, readjusting his bag.

“Why is no one else bothered by him?!”

Liam laughs, standing up straight. “You should meet him. You’ll see. He’s just having a good time.”

Harry makes a face. “Oh, I fully intend to meet him. And tell him to stop fucking around during our games. We’re almost at the end of the season. I can’t afford to suck. I have a scholarship depending on it, and I’m starting to get scouted for the NBA.”

Clay nods. “I really think you would like him, Harry. He probably thinks he’s being supportive. Or funny.”

“Well. He isn’t.”

Clay snorts. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

Harry sighs. “So. Louis Tomlinson?”

Liam nods. “Yep. Lives right off campus on Brindle. He’s a psych major, I believe.”

“And he really doesn’t bother anyone else? Is it just me?”

Clay laughs. “I heard Matt complaining about him earlier. And I don’t think David was thrilled, either. But honestly, it seems to me that the people that don’t like Tommo are the ones that haven’t ever met him.” He shrugs and then winks. “But at least both of them kept their jump shots.”

Harry shoves him with his shoulder, gripping his towel so it doesn’t slip off. “Okay, that’s enough out of you.”  
  


* * *

  
After the fourth game of Louis blatantly harassing him from the stands, Harry ends up getting pulled from the game with 14 minutes to spare, and he’s nearly buzzing in his own skin with how annoyed he is. He tried to tune him out, he really did, but Louis somehow managed to make it down to the second row, just two behind the team’s bench, and he shouted obscenities about each player throughout the duration of the game.

Harry honestly thought Liam was going to break after Louis started going on about how nice his arms look in his jersey, but it only seemed to encourage him, making both of his foul shots and then a three-pointer directly after. Harry looked over at Louis from his spot on the bench just in time to see him point at Liam and wink, Liam returning the favor by blowing him a kiss.

Son of a bitch.

They win with a score of 88-73, definitely not as close as the game prior, and though Harry is glad they played so well, he knows he wasn’t a part of it. If anything, he dragged them down.

All because of this dumbass in the crowd.

He catches Clay on the way out. “Louis Tomlinson lives at Brindle, right?”

Clay nods, smile playing across his face. “He does. But he won’t be there tonight.”

Harry sighs. “And where exactly might he be?”

His smile is downright devilish. “At the afterparty. Liam invited him. I’ll see you there.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch.  
  
  
  
The house is absolutely  _ packed _ when Harry walks in, presumably a combination of winning and it being a Friday night. A few familiar faces pat him on the back, cheering, telling him  _ good game, _ and he decides right then and there that searching for Louis in this disgusting house filled with nearly 200 people is a lost cause.

Instead, he joins a few of the players from the team in the makeshift living room.

“Bottoms up, Styles,” Kenny says.

He drinks.  
  
  
  
It’s nearly midnight, and Harry is positively wasted. He’s throwing back shots with people he’s never seen before, he’s autographing bras, for fuck’s sake, and he’s one step away from jumping on the coffee table and dancing to the Rihanna song that’s playing.

Or maybe he already did that. He can’t be sure.

He finishes off another beer and sets it down on the coffee table, and that’s when he spots him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis standing off to the side with Niall, a guy he knows from his human growth and development class, and they’re both laughing at something.

Harry has a drunken suspicion it’s him.

He saunters over into the kitchen, stumbling three times, and he takes a deep breath, trying to remember all the words he’s had on the tip of his tongue for weeks.

_ Do you get a rise out of this, out of riling me up so much? You’re a brat. An immature brat. You’re a pain in the ass, you don’t take the players into consideration when you’re spewing out your stupid comments, you’re totally obnoxious, and what the fuck do you think you’re laughing at, anyway? Don’t show up to any more games. No one wants you there. _

However, the moment he’s directly in front of Louis, every word he was ready to say flies out of his mind, and all he can think of is,  _ Okay, I did  _ not  _ know you were this gorgeous. _

Louis blinks slowly. “Can I help you?”

Harry furrows his brows. “Hi.”

“Hi…”

Harry starts over. “You keep laughing.” He shakes his head. This is already all wrong, not how he intended for this to go.

Louis can clearly tell Harry is frustrated. And drunk. He seems to humor him when he scrunches up his face and asks, “I keep laughing?”

“You do. You keep laughing at me during games and you’re laughing right now and you have very blue eyes. I didn’t know.” He pauses to hiccup. “I didn’t know that you had such blue eyes.”

Niall bursts out laughing. “That’s eloquent, Harry.”

“Why do you keep laughing at me?” he continues, ignoring Niall entirely.

Louis crosses his arms, biting at his bottom lip. “I wasn’t laughing at you, babe. I didn’t know you were around.” He closes his eyes for a moment and his eyelashes brush against his cheekbones. “And my eyes. You like ‘em?”

Harry is having trouble swallowing. He nods. “They’re blue.”

“So you said.”

“And like. I didn’t know that.”

“It appears that way.”

“Mine are green.”

“I can see them.”

Harry furrows his brows again. “I had a lot to say and I can’t remember any of it.”

Louis smiles. He keeps tapping his fingers against his thigh and Harry kind of wants to reach out and grab them. “It’s okay, take your time.”

He takes a deep breath, clenching his fists. “I’m bad at basketball now.”

He barks out a laugh. “You are  _ not. _ I’ve been to every game since the start of the season. You’ve been getting better, Styles. Your point average has gone up, like, between five-11 points per game. Your turnover rate is remarkable, honestly, and when was the last time you missed a free throw? The only one who’s doing better than you this year is Kendrick and he’s a senior, so it’s totally expected.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “You know my stats?”

Louis immediately halts any movement. “Big fan of the team, and all. You know,” he stutters out.

“Sounds like it.” Hiccup, hiccup.

“Trust me, you’re not doing bad by any stretch of the imagination.”

Harry looks down at the floor. His own feet look enormous next to Louis’, trapped inside black and white Vans. He’s having trouble remembering why he was so annoyed in the first place. He clears his throat, trying to ignore how heavy his limbs feel from all the alcohol. If he’s not careful, he could fall asleep right here. “I was really mad at you, for a very long time.”

Niall nudges Louis and Louis ignores him, crossing his arms. “Care to explain why?”

Jesus, he’s dizzy. “You’re very distracting.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head again. “No. Well, yes, but I mean during games. You’re my loud boy.”

Louis smiles so hard, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m  _ your _ loud boy?”

Harry blushes, tongue unable to cooperate. “You’re just very fucking loud and it throws me off during the game and I keep getting pulled out because of you.”

“Hey, I’m not responsible for you falling flat on your ass, or how inconsistent you’ve been over the past few weeks. I’m not in charge of the way your limbs work.”

He frowns. “No. I mean.” He throws his hands up in the air, nearly smacking Niall in the face. “I  _ know _ you’re not in control of  _ this, _ ” he says gesturing to his body. Louis smirks. Christ. He suddenly remembers what he originally wanted to say. “You throw me off balance. And I’m trying to impress scouts. I can’t do that with you screaming in the stands two rows back. I really can’t. You seriously have to stop.” There.

Louis’ face falls and Harry  _ hates _ it, wants to take back every word. “I didn’t mean any harm by it,” he says slowly. “Honestly. I was just showing some school spirit, you know? But if it makes it easier, I won’t come.”

“Okay, thanks.” He bites at his bottom lip. “Wait, you don’t have to stay home when we play.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “What exactly do you want from me?!”

“I think I want you there. I just don’t want you shrieking bloody murder.”

“I’m not sure I can turn that off, Styles. Or if I want to.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

Niall laughs. “That is the most accurate thing you’ve  _ ever _ said, you have no idea.”

Louis bites at his bottom lip. “Excuse me?”

Harry taps his foot on the floor. The tile is sticky. He tries not to focus on that. “Your face is perfect.”

Louis rolls his eyes but his cheeks turn pink, anyway. “I think you’re veering from the main topic of discussion.”

“Your face is perfect and I think I want you in the stands at the games. Just try not to be a lunatic, okay? I think I could like having you there as long as there isn’t an air horn or a cow bell in your possession.”

He smiles. “Sounds like you’ve done a lot of thinking.”

Harry can tell Louis is teasing him and he sort of loves it. A lot. “‘m trying.”

“Look, I just like to have a good time, and sometimes that means embarrassing Zayn, sometimes that means pissing you off, apparently. But. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll work on toning it down.”

Harry shakes his head for the third time, curls bouncing. “Wait, who’s Zayn?”

“My friend that I usually force to come with me to the games. Black hair.”

He remembers him. “The guy who acts like being at a basketball game is the worst thing in the entire world?”

“No, the guy who acts like being at a basketball game with  _ me _ is the worst thing in the entire world.” Louis stares directly into Harry’s eyes, and Harry can’t seem to turn away. “Are you still mad at me?”

He sighs, knowing he’s lost this round. He’s melting like putty in Louis’ hands. “No. I’m not mad at you anymore,” he says honestly, then pouts. “But I  _ am _ mad at Liam and Clay now.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, his voice dripping with fake innocence.

“Because they told me if I met you I would love you and I told them there was no way and I don’t like being wrong.”

Louis smiles again, bright and unwavering. “Aww, you  _ love _ me?” He bats his eyelashes ridiculously.

He can’t help but play along. “Probably.”

Louis flashes another smile that takes over his whole face, Niall gags over their exchange, and Harry knows he’s  _ done _ for.  
  


* * *

  
After that night at the party, the team goes on the road. They’ll be gone for nine days, playing a five-game series, and Harry is excited. He knows there will be some important people there - scouts, watching  _ him _ specifically - and he’s ready to finally focus and show these people what he’s capable of.

However, based on game number one’s performance so far, unfortunately, it appears that he isn’t capable of much.

He’s sitting in the locker room during halftime, towel around his neck, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He has  _ never _ played this poorly, including the past few weeks with Louis screaming from the sidelines as if he was on fucking fire, and he doesn’t even flinch with Coach starts his verbal punishment. He knows it’s well deserved this time around.

Just before they’re set to head back out onto the court, Harry grabs his phone from his duffel bag’s side pocket, figuring he has time to answer the texts he most definitely has from his mom, wishing him good luck. Among his mom’s expected messages, he has one from a number he doesn’t know. Curiously, he opens it, ignoring Liam’s warning from the other side of the locker room to line up.

_ I’m watching the game on ESPN now and I’ll have you know that I am sitting politely and quietly so that way you’re not disturbed, even from four states over. But I’m beginning to think that everything you told me the other night is all a bunch of bullshit. You can’t blame your shitty playing on me if I’m not even fucking there. _

Harry tries not to smile, he really does, but he fails. He taps out his reply quickly:  _ Who’s this? _

His phone buzzes almost instantly.  _ If you know what’s good for you, you’ll pull your head out of your ass and play like we all know you can. It’s starting to get embarrassing. _

“Harry, you have 90 seconds!” David yells from the other side of the locker room.

“Okay, hold on,” he shouts back.  _ Is that supposed to be a threat, Tommo? _

_ If I don’t see a significant improvement by the end of the second half, you’re going to be extremely sorry. Next home game… I’ll positively destroy you from the stands. _

Harry rolls his eyes, as if Louis can see him.  _ Bring it. _

_ Get back out there. You look nice in your uniform, by the way. I hate it. _

He swallows heavily. There’s  _ no _ way he won’t be distracted out there now.  _ Thanks, baby. _

“Harry, let’s fucking go!” Liam nearly screams, voice shrill.

“I’m coming, relax!” He doesn’t have time to answer Louis’ incoming text, which reads,  _ Don’t call me baby, you dick _ . He’s so tempted to keep typing, so overwhelmed by all that is  _ Louis, _ but he has a game to attend to. He tosses his phone back into his duffel bag and takes his spot next to Liam in line.

The arena feels hotter, the crowd sounds noisier, the scouts gazes are firmer. Normally, these things would be a massive encouragement, spurring him on to play hard and work his ass off.

This time, it’s knowing there’s a boy back home watching  _ him _ on TV.

And that’s what drives him to score 28 points in the second half, positively  _ crushing _ it.  
  


* * *

  
The Thursday night that the team returns, Coach gives them the night off, telling them they deserve it after sweeping the series, winning all five games. He encourages them to all rest up, to get prepared for their upcoming game, but Harry has no intention to take it easy. There’s someone he’d rather see, and so far, by no means, has this person been a stroll in the park, so to speak.

He calls Louis the second he gets back to his apartment, no plan of action ready, just wants to finally  _ see _ him. He’s desperately trying to come up with something while the phone rings, mentally kicking himself for not coming up with an idea and  _ before _ dialing Louis’ number, but then the phone stops ringing and Louis answers with a breathless, “Hello?”

“Why are you so out of breath?”

“‘m jerking off.”

Harry snorts, flipping on the light switch in the kitchen. “To my picture, I assume.”

“I thought that went without saying.”

“I hate you.”

Louis laughs, still breathless. “Any particular reason for the call, Styles? I’m at the gym.”

Harry perks up at that. “Oh? What are you wearing?”

“You’re insufferable,” Louis replies, but Harry can hear the smirk behind it.

“ _ Anyway, _ ” Harry says as he starts rifling through the refrigerator for anything that hasn’t expired, “I wanted to see you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pulls a container out from the second shelf and peeks inside.  _ Definitely _ expired. “Do you… Wanna see me?”

“Not particularly.”

“Ouch.”

Louis laughs again. “Why, what do you have planned?”

_ Nothing. _ “Uh, some stuff.”

“Sounds riveting.”

Harry slams the refrigerator door shut, coming up empty handed. “It  _ is. _ And you’ll be sorry you spent your night at the gym when I was throwing an awesome party.”  _ What? _

“I’m not quite sure why I don’t believe you… Hmm…”

“I swear, I’m having a party. You’re gonna miss out.”

“So, I guess I’ll have to stop by, then. See it with my own two eyes.”

“I guess so.”

“Alrighty. You tell all of your partygoers that I’ll see them soon, around ten o’clock.” Louis pauses and Harry can hear him take a sip of water. “I just want to let you know that I said the word ‘partygoers’ with air quotes around it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, smile not in danger of slipping. “What exactly are you implying?”

“That said partygoers are really just you and your cats.”

“I don’t even  _ have _ cats.” He frowns. “At least, not on campus.”

Louis’ laugh is ridiculous. “Bye, babe.”  _ Click. _

Harry is frozen for about three seconds before he can react. He dials Liam’s number quickly, cursing when he doesn’t pick up after the first or second ring.

Finally: “I just left you, like, ten minutes ago. What could you possibly want already?”

“I miss you.”

“Harry.”

“I’m throwing a party and I need you here.”

“Why on  _ Earth _ would I want to come to a party right now? We just spent the past eight hours on a fucking bus. I’m exhausted.”

“ _ Liam, _ ” Harry whines. “I already called Clay and Ryan. They’re coming. And they’re bringing Allie and Jaclyn.” Eh. What Liam doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Why should that matter to me?”

“Because Jaclyn said she would bring Olivia, too.”

_ That _ gets Liam’s attention. “Fuck. Fine. They’re on their way?”

“Yeah, they’ll be here any minute.” He peers into the empty cabinet next to the refrigerator where he usually stores alcohol. “And bring some liquor!”

He hangs up before Liam has time to protest and he dials Clay’s number. “Hey. So, like, me and Liam are throwing a party to celebrate the series sweep. The whole team is coming. Li told me to ask you guys to bring Al and Jaclyn. Oh, and Olivia. See you in ten.”  
  
  
  
Word travels quickly - alarmingly quickly - that Harry Styles is throwing a celebratory party in his tiny one-bedroom apartment just off campus. Liam shows up first, followed by Clay and Ryan with girls in tow, and after that, Harry loses track of who enters through the door. It seems like a never ending stream of people, most of whom are carrying bottles of alcohol, thank  _ God, _ but Harry is starting to worry about the capacity of his apartment. It seems cramped enough when it’s just him, never mind when it’s housing the entire basketball team and the rest of the junior class.

So much for “resting up.”

Harry keeps his eyes glued to the door, waiting for Louis, but ten o’clock comes and goes and so does Harry’s sanity. He eventually weaves his way in and out of people, grabbing a shot glass and a bottle of tequila off of the counter in the kitchen, and makes his way into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He sits down on the floor, leaning up against his bed, and pours tequila into the shot glass, throwing it back immediately. The burn on the way down is familiar and expected; he waits a minute for the feeling to wear off before he pours some more.

He’s not hiding, per se, but the fatigue from the past nine days is finally catching up with him. His muscles are sore, his head is cloudy, and if he lays down on his bed, he  _ knows _ he won’t be getting up for the next day or two.

Only a few minutes go by before a knock comes at the door. He has the strongest urge to keep silent, pretend like no one’s home, but he can’t ignore it when the knocking starts up again, this time louder and more persistent.

He doesn’t have the energy to stand up, so he calls out, “Come in.”

Louis opens the door just enough to slide inside, letting it slam behind him. “Shit host, you are. Didn’t greet me at the door, didn’t offer me a drink, won’t even get up off the damn floor to acknowledge my presence in your bedroom for the first time…”

Harry blinks lazily. “‘m sorry. Come down here.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t want to do that, but he slinks down to the floor, anyway, taking the shot glass from out of Harry’s hand. “Pour.”

Harry fills it almost to the brim and he watches intently as Louis throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His hair is damp, his sweatshirt strings are completely uneven, and his sweatpants are so big, Harry thinks they could both climb inside and have room to spare.

He looks even better than Harry remembered.

“So. Welcome to my house.”

Louis snorts. “Couldn’t even find you for the first five minutes. Didn’t think I’d actually find you holed up in your damn bedroom.”

“I’m exhausted.” On cue, he yawns.

“I can see that.” He drags his finger along the rough edge of the carpet. “Can’t believe you  _ actually _ threw a party.”

“Told you I was.”

“Mmm. Should have believed you, I guess.”

“Exactly. Now you’ll never doubt me again.”

Louis shakes his head, hair falling out from behind his ear. “Can’t say that I will.” He bumps his knee against Harry’s, letting it fall and rest there.

Harry has to strongly resist the urge to touch him, has to sit on his hands to keep from actually reaching out. It’s electric, this heat between them, and he swore he’d embellished it over the past couple of weeks, remembering something that wasn’t really there, potentially going off of drunk feelings alone. But Christ, he was so wrong about that. Everything is almost too much. He can’t stop staring at Louis’ eyes, his lips, his cheekbones, his hands, his Goddamn wrists. Everything about his body is everything Harry loves, and he’s so attracted to him, he can hardly focus. But when push comes to shove, it’s Louis’  _ mind _ that keeps Harry interested. Obsessed, even. He’s witty, noticeably intelligent, much too aware of his obvious hilarity, unyieldingly confident, and  _ gentle. _ His heart is so big, so full, and Harry can’t believe that the same guy who threatens him wildly before every game is the same guy who reads books to underprivileged children at the public library every Monday afternoon.

Unbelievable.

He’s about to tell Louis as much, let all of his secrets slip out, when Louis speaks first. “Do you wanna go back out there?”

Harry scrunches up his nose. “Not really.”

“Good. Me, neither.” He rolls the shot glass around in his palm. “A round of ‘Never Have I Ever?’”

“Isn’t that stupid to play with just two people?”

Louis pretends to be offended. “Honestly, Harry, calling  _ me _ stupid.”

Harry grabs the shot glass and fills it so much, some spills over. “Never have I ever been asked to leave a basketball game for using a fucking airhorn.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Low blow, Styles. Fuck you.” He drinks quickly, handing the glass back to Harry. “Boring life you must be leading, if that’s never happened to you.”

He smirks. “Boring, absolutely.”

“Hmm.” He taps on his chin, as if that’s really necessary for thinking, and Harry has to turn away so he doesn’t laugh. “Never have I ever transferred schools.”

Harry scoffs. “Talk about boring. That’s the lamest one I’ve  _ ever _ heard.” He takes the drink, anyway, and shoots back with, “Never have I ever practiced kissing my pillow when I was 12 and then cried when my mom walked in on me.”

Louis punches him on the arm. “I told you that in secrecy, you dick!”

He shrugs. “Let this be a lesson that just because you’re drunk and texting me at three in the morning doesn’t mean I’ll take pity on you and pretend you have immunity.”

“Never have I ever jerked off in a public restroom.” His gaze is steady and even, his right eyebrow raised.

Harry’s jaw drops. “Who told you that?!”

“Doesn’t matter, but here’s  _ your _ fucking lesson:  _ you _ don’t have immunity,  _ either, _ dumbass.”

And it continues that way for far too long, both coming up with very specific and  _ very _ embarrassing details just to get a rise out of one another until Harry is so drunk, he doesn’t remember how to use his legs.

Louis fills up the shot again and just looking at it makes Harry’s stomach queasy. “Lou, no more.”

“Last one.”

“I don’t know if I can--”

“Never have I ever thrown a last minute party to impress a boy, or to trick him into coming to my apartment.”

Harry knows he’s blushing - he can feel the heat rising up his neck - and he cringes at himself. “If I admit it, will you still make me take that shot?”

Louis smirks. “No, babe, you don’t have to take the shot.”

“I made up a party to get you to come here.”

“I know. I’m not an idiot.”

“It worked, though, right?”

Louis clears his throat and tenderly grabs Harry’s arm, tracing the veins under his skin, following the blue trail with his pointer finger. He doesn’t look up when he says, “Would’ve came, anyway. Didn’t need to make up some elaborate plan to get me over here. I wanted to see you.”

Harry groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Wish I’d known that before.”

Outside of Harry’s bedroom door, the sound of a beer bottle shattering startles them both, and Louis turns toward the door, fingers still moving across Harry’s skin. “Forgot there were other people here, honestly.”

Harry nods. “Me, too.” He takes Louis’ hand in his own, drawing lazy circles with his thumb. “Best party ever, though, I think.”

Louis smiles. “Yeah. Best party ever.”  
  


* * *

  
Harry hasn’t seen Louis in person since the night of the fake party, and though they’ve been texting pretty much nonstop since that first away game, he  _ misses _ him, damnit. He has to actively force himself to stop counting down the days until their next home game, just so he can listen to Louis’ over-the-top cheering from his seat in the crowd, just so he can see that damn smile.

In the days leading up to one of their biggest games of the year, Harry spends way too much time talking to Louis, whether that be through text or over the phone. He doesn’t have enough free time to actually head over to Louis’, or to take him out like he really wants to, so he figures this will have to suffice for the time being, as much as he’s itching to see him again. And he knows he should probably be on the court, spending whatever extra time he has working on their new drill, but that’s not his main priority right now. Louis starts joking that it’s  _ Harry _ harassing  _ him _ instead of the other way around, and Harry can’t be bothered to argue that statement.

Louis answers the phone one night saying, “Okay, seriously, Styles. Don’t you ever have to study? Or maybe you should go to the gym? Leave me alone.”

“Aw, baby, I like talking to you, too,” he croons.

“I  _ said, _ don’t call me baby. I’m hanging up now.”

He doesn’t hang up, though, and they spend the next two hours talking.

The more Harry learns about Louis, the more endeared he is. He discovers Louis is a psychology major because his uncle suffered from schizophrenia his entire life and Louis wanted to learn more about it, wanted to help others dealing with it. He finds out that Louis  _ loves _ peanut butter - would put it on anything if it was socially acceptable - but has a strange aversion to peanuts themselves. Louis tells him that his best vacation ever was the trip his family went on when he was in middle school to the Grand Canyon. He liked the feeling of being surrounded by something so much bigger than him, something so beautiful and unchanging. And Harry is beyond pleased to learn that basketball is, in fact, Louis’ favorite sport. He played throughout high school, was never interested in continuing beyond that, but one of his deciding factors for picking this college in particular was that their basketball team is notoriously known for being phenomenal and he wanted to be able to attend as many incredible games as he could manage.

“You picked this college just so you could find me. Fate,” Harry says into the phone, chomping on a pretzel rod.

“You’re an idiot,” Louis answers, but Harry can hear the fondness behind it.

They play their next home game on a Tuesday, and it’s a big one. They’ve lost to this team in overtime the past three years in a row, landing this school the title as their number one rival, and Harry is ready. Ready to finally defeat them.

Ready to finally see Louis.

Whatever.

Louis told him the night before that he would be there, minding to himself as to not disturb Harry on the court. Harry isn’t sure if he believes him, but he thanked him, regardless, giddy with excitement.

The game starts at 7:05 sharp, and Louis is nowhere to be seen. Harry’s nearly dizzy with how many times he spins around the court, eyes traveling across the crowds, searching for Louis’ face. He doesn’t see him anywhere, and he falters throughout the entire duration of the first half, pissed at himself for being so affected by nothing.

He spots Zayn at the beginning of the second half. He sees him walking up the stairs with a drink in each hand, and Harry doesn’t take his eyes off of him until he sees him sit down next to Louis in a section of the arena he’s never once sat in before.

Bingo.

Louis is sitting quietly as promised, but when he catches Harry staring at him, he lets out an enormous  _ Whoop! _ , and Harry nearly trips over his own feet, barely managing to successfully pass the ball to his own teammate. This time, though, it’s with a smile on his face, and he plays like an absolute  _ animal _ the rest of the game, scoring 21 points in the last eight minutes alone.

They win for the first time in three years and the noise from the crowd is positively deafening. The fans stomp their feet on the ground so loudly at the final buzzer that Harry can actually feel the vibrations deep in his chest. It feels  _ so _ good, and he has to force himself to tear his gaze away from Louis’, nearly 40 rows up.

After they’ve done their press, showered, and changed, Harry makes his way out of the locker room, and he has to do a double take when he sees Louis standing there, jacket folded over his crossed arms, lazy smile playing across his face.

“Have you been standing here the whole time?” Harry asks, dropping his duffel bag to the floor.

“Nah. They wouldn’t let me in at first, even when I told them I personally knew  _ the _ Harry Styles and he has, in fact, been stalking me for the past couple of weeks. I’ve only been down here for about 10 minutes.”

Harry smirks. “You never said you didn’t like my constant harassment.”

“No, I didn’t.” He blinks twice, smile still prominent. “Hey. You did it. You fucking won.”

He pushes his hair out of his face. “We fucking did.”

“Congrats, H.”

Harry only has to take three deep strides before he’s standing in front of Louis, gathering him into his arms the way he’s wanted to for  _ so _ long. Louis grips the back of his sweatshirt and Harry loves how he feels under his touch. “Thank you,” he murmurs. He doesn’t allow himself to think twice before he pulls away briefly, cups Louis’ jaw in his hands, leans back in slowly, and kisses him the way he’s been thinking about nonstop since that first night they stood in front of each other, drunk and stupid.

Louis immediately cards his hands through Harry’s damp curls, twisting them around his pointer fingers the exact way Harry loves. It seems like Louis has been waiting for this, too, based on the way he immediately exhales and digs his nails into Harry’s scalp, and that only encourages Harry more.

He guides Louis backward until he’s pushed up against the brick wall behind him, and Louis whimpers high in his throat when Harry nips at his bottom lip. Harry thinks he would die to hear that sound again, and his movements only grow more frantic after that. He can’t stop touching Louis everywhere, living for the way Louis keeps arching his back, his chest pushed flush against Harry’s.

Louis’ mouth is slick, his hands are relentless, his breathing heavy, and Harry is in so deep over his head, he feels like he’s drowning in it.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless, and he has to close his eyes when he sees Louis’ red lips and pink cheeks. “You’re gorgeous,” he admits, eyes still closed. He opens them and smiles when he sees the look Louis is giving him.

“Shut up,” he whispers, and leans in to kiss Harry again.

They move slower than before, taking their time, learning and tasting with every swipe of the tongue. Harry can’t believe how good it is, how attracted he is to Louis, how much he doesn’t want to stop.

Louis’ the one to break the kiss this time, and he immediately slumps forward, leaning his forehead against Harry’s chest, letting Harry wrap his arms around him. He briefly wonders if Louis can hear how rapidly his heart is beating. He hopes not.

Louis doesn’t say anything, just pushes himself further into Harry’s grip, and Harry can’t help but smirk. “Would have kissed you ages ago if I knew it was a surefire way to get you to stop talking.”

“I  _ said, _ shut up.” He pinches Harry’s back through his sweatshirt, hard enough that he figures he’ll have bruises tomorrow. But then he burrows his head back back into Harry’s chest the stinging in his back seems to immediately subside.

It shouldn’t feel this easy, shouldn’t work this well already, shouldn’t feel like they’ve known each other for years. But it does. And Harry holds on tighter.  
  


* * *

  
Over the next four weeks, Louis attends every single home game they play. Sometimes he drags Zayn along, sometimes he sits alone, but he always makes his presence known. He leaves the air horn behind these days, and he’s usually fairly quiet for the most part, which Harry - and other patrons around him, probably - appreciates. It’s… Just knowing Louis is there is comforting; a greater sense of support than screaming at the top of his lungs  _ ever _ was.

Christ. How did Harry allow this to happen so quickly?

He knows he’s falling, knows Louis knows, too, and he feels like  _ shit _ that he can’t prove it the way he wants to. There can’t be any wining and dining, no wooing, no exceptional dates - not while basketball season is in play. He’s barely managing to keep his studies together, never mind find the time to impress and show Louis that he’s serious, that he’s completely and utterly crazy about him.

Creative. He needs to be creative. He can do this, wants to do this.

He packs a bag full of subs, chips, and makes some cookies, keeping them safe in the refrigerator just outside of Coach’s office. He tells Louis to wait for him after the game, and once the arena is completely empty, they climb to the tallest seats and eat their meals there. Harry tells Louis he’s sorry their first dinner date is so lame, that every restaurant in the area is closed by the time the game typically ends and this is all he could think of; Louis replies by kissing him on the cheek and holding up his paper cup filled with Coke, saying  _ Cheers _ .

A few nights later, Harry sends Louis a picture of a CD, and Louis calls him almost immediately after.

“Why are you sending me this?”

“I made you a mixtape.”

“You made me a mixtape.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you make me a mixtape…”

“Because I thought it would be fun for you to listen to some of my favorite songs. There are a couple on there that remind me of you, too.”

Louis snorts through the phone. “You are a complete and utter nut. H, I’m not even sure if I  _ have _ a CD player anymore.”

“Oh.” Harry closes his laptop. “That’s okay, I can keep it then.”

“No!” Louis nearly shouts. “I mean. I want it.”

He smiles. “Good. You can have it.”

Harry gives the CD to Louis the next day, and it only takes a week for Louis to begin humming along to some of Harry’s favorite tracks.

The following Wednesday, Harry calls Louis and Louis answers in a hushed tone. “Sorry, babe, I’m at the library,” he whispers. “I have a ton of studying to do.”

“Oh. Actually. Do you mind if I join you? I have a massive paper to write.”

“As long as you don’t distract me, we’ve got a date.”

Naturally, upon hearing Louis use the word ‘date,’ Harry shows up with a candle and puts it on the table in front of Louis.

“What the hell is this.”

“A candle, duh. Can’t have a date without a little romanticism.”

“Harry, you can’t light a candle in a fucking library, you lunatic.” He looks around, eyes wide. “This entire building is basically made out of  _ paper. _ ”

“Who said anything about lighting it?” He sits down next to Louis and pulls out his laptop, opening up his Word document.

Louis stares at him dumbly. “So… You’re just going to leave an unlit candle on the table in front of me.”

“Yes.” He begins typing. “Ambiance, Lou.”

“Oh my God, you’re worse than I ever imagined.” He leans forward and sniffs the candle. “It smells like a foot.”

“It smells like peaches.”

“Whatever.”

Harry slides his hand onto Louis’ thigh and squeezes. “Not much longer now until the season is over, and then you get me  _ all _ the time.”

“Goody,” he answers sarcastically, voice back to a whisper, but he puts his hand on top of Harry’s and Harry can’t help but smile.  
  
  
  
There are only three more home games left in the season before playoff games start, and Harry is feeling the pressure to dominate in every last one of them. He tells Louis it’s like a final exam; that no one cares about anything you’ve done in the beginning of the semester if you fuck up right at the end.

Louis’ advice: “Well, better not fuck up then.”

Helpful.

Their Thursday night game isn’t set to be an important game - the opposing team is 8-15 for the season - but he still wants to obliterate them. He wants to wreck them, and then he wants to wreck his boy, high off of adrenaline from the game, from Louis.

They haven’t done that yet, but it’s all he can think about. He’s nearly coming out of his skin with how badly he wants to taste Louis, get his fingers in him, make him squirm, fuck into him until he can’t breathe. They haven’t talked about it, but he’s hinted at it enough that there’s no way Louis doesn’t know, no way Louis is oblivious to the fact that Harry is undoubtedly crazy about him.

And lucky for Harry, he has the feeling it’s mutual.

He’s standing on the court, sweat dripping off the ends of his curls and down his back, and he’s  _ killing _ it. That is, until he realizes he hasn’t heard or seen Louis once since the start of the game 27 minutes ago.

He looks around, breathing heavily, squinting to try to get a better glimpse of who’s sitting way at the top, but he doesn’t see Louis anywhere. No Zayn, either.

Hmm.

Harry tries not to let it bother him, but then he gets into the locker room at halftime and reads a text from Louis that says,  _ Good luck! Crush it. Call me when you’re done and let me know how it went! _

He quickly texts back,  _ Wait, why aren’t you here?! _

His phone buzzes immediately.  _ I have a midterm tomorrow. I have a ton of studying to do. Sorry! _

Harry frowns. No, this won’t do.  _ But I need you here. _

_ Stop texting me. Get back out there and don’t suck. _

He looks up from his phone. “Hey, Liam.”

Liam turns. “You ready?”

“Yeah, almost. Did you know Louis wasn’t coming?”

He shrugs. “Was I… Supposed to know?”

“I dunno.”

Liam stares at him blankly when Harry doesn’t offer anymore than that. “Alrighty. Good talk.”

His frown grows deeper. “ _ Liam, _ ” he whines, “I’m not gonna be able to play well without him out there.”

“ _ My _ how the tables have turned,” Liam says, laughter dancing in his eyes. “If I told you a month ago that you’d be saying this, you would have spit in my face.”

Harry crosses his arms. “What’s your point.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve been playing fine all night. Don’t get all in your head about it.”

“Ugh, you’re right.” Harry stands up and stretches, joining the others on their way back out to the court. “I won’t get all in my head about it."  
  
  
  
He does exactly the opposite, and ends up getting taken out of the game three minutes into the second half.  
  


* * *

  
They end up losing, and Harry feels like shit about it. It wasn’t entirely his fault; everyone got too cocky and went in with a high and mighty attitude. By the time they realized they were too far behind to catch up, there was only a minute and a half left on the clock and it was too late.

He doesn’t stick around the gymnasium much after the crowds clear out. He lingers just long enough to take a brief shower, avoid Coach’s gaze, and slip out before any of the other guys ask him to go out and blow off some steam to deal with this embarrassing loss.

Harry has a different idea.

He walks the mile to Brindle even though it’s only five degrees above freezing, keeping his hands wedged in his pockets the entire time, and is happy to see Cole, Louis’ roommate, parking his car in the lot just as Harry arrives.

“Hey! Cole!” he calls out, breaking out into a jog.

Cole turns. “Ah, hey, man. Just heard about the game. Shit sucks.”

Harry shrugs. “It happens.”

“You heading out with the rest of the team? I think I saw Matt and Kendrick walking into Murray’s a bit ago.”

“Actually, I was going to go up to see Louis. Mind letting me in?”

“Sure, no problem.” Cole reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. “I’m not staying, anyway. Just came to drop off my car. Pretty sure Lou has been studying since, like, eight o’clock this morning. He was pretty bummed he had to miss your game.”

He smiles. “That’s good to hear, at least.”

“Yeah. I had no idea he was such an avid basketball fan until this year. I don’t think he’s missed a single game since you transferred in. Last year he probably only went once or twice.” Cole twists the doorknob and the door creaks open. “You’re all set. Good luck with the game on Saturday. Heard it’s going to be a good one.”

Harry takes a moment to process that information, and then smirks, immediately storing it in his brain to bring up later. “Uh, yeah, it should be, hopefully. Thanks, man.”

“No problem.”

Harry takes the steps two at a time and doesn’t bother knocking before he enters. He knows Louis and Cole don’t bother locking it, even though he’s never been here before. Louis - stupidly - told him as much.

He takes a minute to look around before he calls out Louis’ name. It’s surprisingly tidy, considering two 21-year-old men live here. The couch by the door is clearly a piece of furniture passed down through several generations, but the blankets draped over the back make it look a little less dingy and a little more comfortable. The stack of DVD’s next to the TV is rather impressive, as is the sound system attached to it, and Harry widens his eyes in surprise when he sees  _ five _ gaming systems.

Who actually has the time to use all of those?

He’s inspecting the plant - what college student has a real, live  _ plant _ in their apartment? - when he hears Louis shuffling down the hallway.

“So, I need to be done for the night so my brain doesn’t totally fry. I was thinking we could-- Oh! Hey, how’d you get up here?” he asks, eyes widening in surprise at Harry’s presence.

“You have a plant,” Harry says, touching the leaves.

Louis looks at him like he’s the dumbest human on the planet. “What gave it away.”

“I just didn’t expect you to have a plant, is all.”

“Well, surprise, I have a plant. If you wanna see my greenhouse, it’s out back.”

Harry’s staring. He tries his best to ignore the fact that Louis is wearing a pair of sweatpants that do phenomenal things to his ass, and that he apparently owns a pair of black, thick framed glasses. It’s unfair that he makes them look so good. Louis pushes them up the bridge of his nose and he has to force himself to focus. “Wait, do you really have a greenhouse?” he asks.

“For fuck’s sake,  _ no _ , I don’t have a greenhouse, you moron.”

“I should have stayed with Cole. He’s actually nice to me.”

Louis ignores him and heads into the kitchen, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out a box of tea packets. “You said he let you in?”

Harry nods. “Yep.”

He looks around, eyebrows raised. “And then you… Killed him and hid the body?”

Harry snorts. “How’d you guess?” Louis smiles and fills up a mug from the sink with water. “He told me he was going out. Not sure with who, though.”

“Party animal, that one.”

“I’ll say.” Harry yawns and scratches the back of his neck. “You’re finally done studying, right?”

“I don’t think my brain can actually retain any more knowledge, so yeah, I’d say I’m done.” He puts the teabag into the steaming water. “Oh! How’d your game go? I didn’t wanna distract myself so I kept the TV off.”

He sits down at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on the edge. “Well. I was doing  _ great _ until I realized a certain someone was absent.” He has to force himself to say, “We lost.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“I’m serious, Lou! The second I realized you weren’t coming I just… Sucked.”

He bursts out laughing. “You do realize how crazy you sound, right? You blame your shitty game on me being there, you blame your shitty game on me  _ not _ being there… You gotta pick a side, Styles. I can’t  _ always _ be at fault.”

Harry pouts. “I just like knowing you’re there, baby.”

“Never used to want me there. And  _ don’t call me baby. _ ” He stirs his tea, not bothering to look up at Harry. “So, like, what was your excuse before you knew me, huh? Who’d you blame then? Gotta learn to take responsibility at some point.”

His pout deepens. “I  _ do _ take responsibility…”

“It’s okay to have an off day,” Louis says, cutting him off. “Just, you have to quit it with setting yourself up for failure. All you’ve been doing lately is putting yourself in these terrible mindsets. It’s all in your head, babe. You’re incredible. Stop overthinking it. And I’ll be at the next game, I promise.” He blows some of the steam, then sips slowly.

Harry furrows his brows. He taps his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. “Did I ever tell you how much I hate being wrong?”

Louis laughs again. “Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned that before. The first time we met, actually.”

He hums. “A lot of that night is hazy but you…” He pauses to swallow. “Couldn’t forget anything about you.”

Louis looks flustered and Harry  _ loves _ that. “Oh, yeah? What about me?”

“Your smart mouth. You always have a comeback, no matter how much I try to throw you off balance. I noticed that the night I met you.”

“You liked that?”

“I  _ loved _ that.”

Louis takes another sip of his tea before he places it down on the counter behind him. “What else?”

Harry smirks. “Your eyes.”

“Ah, yes. I remember you being fairly entranced by them.”

“Not just the color. Love the way they look when you smile really hard. They crinkle at the corners. It might be the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Louis leans against the kitchen wall and crosses his arms. He’s basically asking for it. “Yeah, well. You have that ridiculous dimple. I’ve gotta keep up  _ somehow. _ ”

Harry pushes his chair back and makes his way across the room, standing just before Louis. “If anything,  _ I’m _ the one keeping up with  _ you. _ ” He drags his thumb over Louis’ collarbone, visible through the thin material of his black t-shirt. Louis shivers. “It’s unfair, really. You’re, like… Just truly beautiful.”

Louis blushes. “I hate you.”

“That’s too bad, because you kind of drive me crazy with how much I like you.” He looks right at Louis, gaze unwavering. “With how much I want you.”

“Just ‘kind of?’” Louis’ voice is breathless, much different than normal, and Harry can’t stand it.

“Maybe a little more than ‘kind of.’”

“Good, because it’s definitely more than that on this end.” He drops his gaze and reaches out, gripping Harry’s hips in his hands, squeezing. When he looks back up, he’s biting at his bottom lip, and that’s when Harry snaps.

He surges forward, capturing Louis’ lips with his own, Louis’ back immediately hitting the wall behind him. Harry pushes his tongue forward, dipping into Louis’ mouth, and he can’t hold back the ragged groan he lets out when Louis’ hands grip his hair in response, digging in and holding on tightly.

Louis tastes like tea and Harry has no idea what kind it is but he thinks it might be his new favorite flavor.

It’s a lot, the way Louis can’t seem to control his breathing, the way he keeps pushing his hips forward into Harry’s, the way his hands are relentlessly moving up and down, touching over his back and shoulder blades and neck and chest. Harry has to pull away, has to give himself a moment to compose himself, because if he doesn’t, this will be over much,  _ much _ too quickly.

He kisses up and down Louis’ jaw, his neck, and Louis responds by lolling his head to the side. “Thought about this,” he grits out.

Harry makes quick work of sucking a bruise into Louis’ neck. He pulls away when he’s satisfied. “What’d you think about?”

“You wanting me.” Harry can feel Louis swallow. “You getting hard for me.”

He pushes his hips into Louis’ to prove his point. “Do fucking want you.” He kisses him again, thoroughly and deeply, and when he pulls back, he brackets Louis’ head with his hands on either side of the wall. “And I wanna take you out.”

Louis drops his hands down to the waist of Harry’s sweatpants. “Where do you wanna take me?”

“I don’t know.” He kisses him again. “Anywhere, everywhere. Just want to  _ date _ you.”

“Okay.”

“I also really wanna fuck you.”

Louis whines at that. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Okay,” Harry echoes. He follows Louis’ lead to the bedroom, unable to take his eyes off of him, and by the time he falls down onto the bed beside him, he thinks he might come out of his skin with how badly he wants to touch and taste every inch of his boy.

He yanks Louis’ shirt up over his head, followed by his own, and Louis immediately takes charge, climbing on top of him, kissing down his neck and chest. His stubble is light and barely scratches, but Harry loves the feeling of it, loves everything about it.

Normally, Harry has no problem being confident when he’s in bed with someone. It doesn’t matter if it’s a guy or a girl; he knows what to do and how to do it well. But with Louis? Different league entirely. He can’t stop his hands from shaking, his lips from trembling, and he’s so hard from barely any stimulation that it’s actually embarrassing.

“Lou, Louis,” he pants out. “Wanna suck you off.”

Louis grinds down hard, breath hot against Harry’s chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs, offering nothing other than that. He climbs off of Harry’s lap and pulls down his own sweatpants and boxers, Harry groaning at what he sees.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. “Like, a fucking fantasy.”

He rolls his eyes at that but Harry can tell he’s still affected. He wraps his hand around Louis’ cock, wet and shiny at the tip, and he jerks slowly, just to tease, just to take the edge off.

“Harry, you, you’ve gotta…”

“I’ve got you, baby,” Harry says, and this time, Louis doesn’t say anything about the word ‘baby.’

He takes Louis down slowly, inch by inch, and Louis’ thighs are already trembling. He doesn’t pick up the speed, just takes his time, making it good and hot and slick for Louis, loving the way he can’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands.

Louis’ breathing is uneven and choppy, his hips stuttering every time Harry runs his tongue over the head, and when Harry pops up all the way, he notices a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. “Baby, lube. Wanna get my fingers in you.”

Louis nods and rolls over onto his stomach, reaching inside his nightstand. Harry can’t be helped not to touch, not when his ass is right there in front of him and so, so fucking perfect. He grips it with his hands, squeezing roughly, and he bends down to bite at the left cheek.

Louis groans slightly, twisting his head to look at Harry. “Warn a boy before you go and bite him, Jesus.”

“Seems to me like you didn’t need a warning, seems like you liked it.”

Louis’ neck turns pink. “Didn’t you wanna get your fingers in me?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. But.”

“But, what?”

He bends down, spreading Louis’ cheeks apart, breathing hotly. “Is this okay?”

“Fuck. Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Good.” He doesn’t give it much more thought before he swipes his tongue in between his cheeks, barely giving Louis a moment to react before he’s wiggling his tongue inside.

“What the fuck,” Louis slurs, voice broken and uneven.

Harry assumes that means he’s doing an alright job so far, so he licks firmer, squeezing more flesh with his hands. Louis tries to rock back into it, but Harry has a firm grasp, not allowing him to go very far. He listens as Louis’ breathing picks up even more, works over him until his jaw starts to tense up, and when it sounds like he’s about to come, he stops.

“Gonna finger you now, okay, baby?”

Louis nods, his legs shaking, doesn’t give any more answer than that. His breath hitches loudly, though, when Harry slides the first lube covered finger in, pushing in a second moments later.

“Feel good?” Harry asks, even though he knows that’s a rhetorical question. Louis can’t stay still, his body jerking every time Harry brushes up against his prostate, his eyes glassy.

“So fucking good, Harry. ‘nother finger. Need you to give me another.”

Harry pushes in a third, spreading them out, unable to look away from Louis’ body as he clenches down, taking it so well.

He’s so fucking hard.

He works Louis over for another few minutes, trusting him to tell him when he’s ready for more. It doesn’t take much longer, though, and Louis slaps his hand down on the mattress.

“Okay,” he nearly shouts. “Okay, fuck me.”

Harry clenches his jaw and reaches over on the nightstand for a condom, ripping it on and putting it on faster than he’s ever managed in his entire life. He pours on a liberal amount of lube before he hovers over Louis, spreading his legs out more, and pushes in with one, fluid motion.

Louis’ moan is downright obscene and Harry can’t do anything but lean down to kiss him, all tongue and teeth. He pulls back and murmurs against Louis’ lips, “Baby, fuck, you feel so good, this isn’t going to take long, Jesus Christ.”

Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, drawing him in. “I could already come.” He arches his back and closes his eyes. “I could seriously already come. You. You’re.” He stops talking, and Harry is glad, because listening to him is only bringing him to the edge quicker.

He pulls his hips back and slams them back in, working his thrusts into a steady, even rhythm, his forearms bracketing Louis’ head on the mattress below him. It feels so good, too good, and he has to close his eyes, can’t look at Louis without absolutely losing it.

He changes his angle without warning and Louis’ eye go wide, mouth falling open, jaw slack. “Fuck, Harry, right there, right fucking there.”

Harry’s shaking, his movements growing sloppy. “Yeah?” He bends down and bites at Louis’ jaw. “You’re so gorgeous, so fucking sexy, I can’t even take it. Been wanting to get inside of you for so long. Want to make you come.” He stops talking to take a deep breath, hold back his impending orgasm. “You gonna come for me, baby?"

Louis nods frantically. “Yes, gonna, so close.”

“Show me,” he murmurs, desperate to get Louis there, not sure he can keep going for much longer.

Louis’ entire body begins to spasm before he starts coming; his eyes roll to the back of his head and his legs clamp down tightly around Harry’s waist. He comes all over his stomach, untouched, and that’s what sends Harry over the edge, too, panting and choking out Louis’ name like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

He might just be.  
  
  
  
It’s late; the sky is pitch black and Harry hasn’t heard a car drive by for hours. Louis is beside him, chest rising and falling with every even breath he takes. He isn’t asleep, but he’s never been this quiet in Harry’s presence before.

Harry kisses him on his bare shoulder. “You don’t mind if I stay, right?” he murmurs.

“God, no. Always want you here.”

He smiles against Louis’ skin, kisses him again. “Then I’m never leaving.”

“‘kay.”

They grow silent again and Louis shifts on the mattress, rustling the sheets, so he’s pressed flush up against Harry. Harry wraps his arms around him and sighs. “This is nice.”

Louis hums. “Would be even nicer if you would stop talking so I could go to sleep.”

“Shh, be quiet, you.”

“I’m  _ trying _ but you won’t shut up.”

Harry kisses him on the top of his head. “Always so sweet to me.”

Louis grunts in reply.

“You know what else is really sweet?”

“Ugh. What.”

“That you didn’t start going to any basketball games until I transferred in this year. What an interesting coincidence.” He’s so proud of himself for managing to keep his voice so steady.

Louis grows completely still. “What are you talking about. Who told you that?”

“Cole mentioned something casually…”

He sits up. “Cole doesn’t know what he’s talking about and now he’s a dead man.”

Harry laughs. “Baby, I’m not accusing you of anything. Should I be?”

Louis makes a face. “No.”

“Okay, then. I just think it’s sweet that you decided to become quite the supporter as soon as I came along. My own personal cheerleader, even when I didn’t know it.”

“I did  _ not _ start going to every game because of  _ you, _ ” he sneers. “I had more free time in my schedule this year and I was finally able to make it to more games. You  _ know _ I love basketball. It had  _ nothing _ to do with you.”

Harry grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. “I’m only teasing, Lou. I’m glad you went to so many games this year. Otherwise,  _ this _ wouldn’t be a thing, right?”

Louis sighs and lays back down. “No, it wouldn’t.” He squishes himself into Harry’s arms again. “Cole is still a dead man, though.”

He laughs. “As long as it isn’t me.”

They’re both quiet again, and Louis lets Harry trace the ridges in his spine for a while before he speaks up. “Okay, maybe I  _ did _ go to a few more games than usual because of how you look in your uniform. It’s absurd, really, like, who fucking looks like that?”

“Aha!” Harry squeezes him tighter until Louis starts yelling at him to get off. “You  _ wanted _ me!”

“Past tense! I don’t want you anymore!”

“Too late, you’re stuck with me!” He loosens his grip and kisses Louis on the shoulder again. “And I’m just so fucking lucky for that.”

Even when Louis kicks him in the shin, he still can’t stop smiling.  
  


* * *

  
Their first playoff game is a week later. The opposing team is from halfway across the country and the night before the game, their bus breaks down. They aren’t able to get a new bus until the following evening, effectively pushing their game date back a full 24 hours.

It’s the first night Harry has had free in  _ months _ and he’s going to take advantage of that. He excitedly calls Louis and asks him if he has plans.

“How would I have other plans already? I was supposed to be going to  _ your _ game.”

“Okay, good. Don’t make plans. I’m taking you out.”

“ _ Finally, _ ” Louis teases.   


“Don’t eat dinner, and dress up for me.”

“Bossy, and a little rude.”

“Are you reading off a description of yourself?”

“Ha ha, fuck off.”

Harry smirks. “But really. Get dressed up. We’re going someplace you will  _ love. _ ”

“Alrighty, Styles, you better not disappoint. This is our first real date, after all.”

“I won’t. I promise.”  
  
  
  
An hour and a half later, Harry and Louis are standing outside of a restaurant downtown, dressed to the nines. They both have on button up shirts, jackets, and Louis styled his hair in a way that Harry has never seen before but is making his mouth water with how good it looks.

He’s about to tell Louis as much when Louis starts talking. “Harry, we can’t go in like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re at a fucking  _ burger _ joint. And we’re in  _ jackets. _ Honestly, what were you thinking telling me to dress up?! You told me we were going someplace nice!”

“No, I didn’t. I said we were going someplace you would  _ love. _ ”

If looks could kill. “We’re going to look like idiots.”

“Since when do you care what other people think of you?”

“I don’t, but… Harry. I have on Goddamn  _ suspenders _ under here.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Shut up. Do you really?”

“ _ Yes, _ ” he hisses.

“Show me.”

Louis rolls his eyes and shrugs off his jacket part way. “See?”

They’re navy blue and tightly snug and they make Louis look downright edible. “I wanna tie you up in those,” he mumbles. Instantly, he purses his lips together.

Louis goes bright red. “Jesus, Harry.” He pulls his jacket back on over his shoulders. “But seriously. This is a dive. We can’t go into this place dressed like this. It’s almost like we’re insulting the restaurant and staff.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t thought of it that way. He furrows his brows. “Maybe you’re right. I just. I only have this one night off for another month or so - maybe even longer if we keep winning - and I wanted to take you somewhere fancy, you know? We never get dressed up and I wanted to look nice for you. I’m usually sweaty and in an old uniform.”

“To be honest, that usually  _ is _ nice for me. I enjoy it.”

Harry smiles briefly. “But I also wanted to eat somewhere I knew you’d be excited about. This place is  _ fun _ and they have a burger I know you’ll really like. And I know this isn’t a five-star restaurant and we didn’t  _ have _ to get dressed up… So. I don’t know. I just figured I don’t get that much time with you and I want to do as much with you as I possibly can. I wanted to squeeze as much as I could into tonight. My goal was to combine two dates with you into one.” He pauses to look at Louis. “Is that stupid? It’s stupid.”

Louis’ demeanor immediately softens. “Fuck, I hate that you’re always so sweet. It pisses me off.”

“Does that mean we can go inside?”

“Ugh. Yeah, I suppose.”

Harry nearly beams at that. “Glad you’re so accommodating, baby.”

“You’re awful. You better hope to God that no one stares at us.”

“Louis, relax. No one is going to stare at us.”  
  
  
  
Everyone stares at them.

Especially when they sit down at the table in the center of the restaurant that has an out of place sign on it that reads “Reserved.” It’s also the only table in the entire joint that has a tablecloth and candles.

“I’m mortified,” Louis whispers once they’re seated.

“Aw, I’m so glad you like it.”

“How much did you have to pay them to get them to do this?”

“Uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “They told me they wouldn’t do that, because they don’t own tablecloths or candles--”

“Shocking.”

“--so I came in earlier and set it up.” He gestures toward the candles, smiling. “And  _ these _ ones are actually lit. So. It’s shaping up to be a good night, in my opinion.”

Louis shakes his head. “You’re really something else, Styles.”

“I’m trying.”

He smiles back. “It’s working.”

A waitress comes over, then, and hands them two menus. “Good evening, I’m Catherine, and  _ my, _ you two look gorgeous.”

Louis groans. “Thanks.”

Harry waves his hands around. “Oh, don’t mind him, he’s just a little shy.”

“Ha. I’ll show you shy.”

Before Louis can say or do anything else, Harry holds his hands up. “Actually, we’re ready to order. He will have The King burger, and I’ll have the Buffalo burger. Both cooked medium rare, please. And two Cokes for now.”

He hands the menus back to their waitress, smiling, and she heads back to the kitchen.

Louis’ staring at him, displeased. “What did you just order me?”

“Something you’ll like. I picked this place specifically so you could try this burger.”

He leans back in his chair. “And what makes you think I’ll like it so much?”

Harry smiles. “Because it has peanut butter on it.”

Louis makes a face. “Excuse me?”

“Peanut butter, bacon, cinnamon, sugar, and fried bananas.”

“On what planet did you think I would want to try a fucking disgusting concoction like that?!”

“You told me a couple of months ago that you loved peanut butter, so I figured this would be something fun to try.”

Louis blinks. “You remember me telling you that I love peanut butter?”

Harry’s confused. “Yes? Was it… Supposed to be kept a secret?”

“No. Just.” He exhales. “That was such a trivial thing for you to remember. I wasn’t even sure if you were  _ listening _ when I told you that.”

“I remember most of the stuff you tell me.” Harry puts his hands in his lap. “Lou, I really,  _ really _ like you.”

Louis stares at him for a beat too long, eventually putting his head on the table, face down. “I’m gonna have to eat this fucking burger, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and you’re going to pretend you love it, too.”

He sits up. “Okay. For you. I’ll do it.”

“That’s my boy.”  
  
  
  
Harry finishes about half of his burger before Louis finally works up the courage to take a single bite.

“Harry, it smells weird.”

“It smells like a burger.”

“ _ No, _ it smells like peanut butter on beef. Peanut beef.”

Harry snorts. “Peanut beef: Ralph Lauren’s newest fragrance from the spring line.”

“ _ Harry, _ ” he whines, not bothering to hold back his smile, “I hate it.”

“You don’t know that yet! Just fucking try it!” But Harry is smiling now, too.

“Okay, but only if you try it first.”

Harry holds up his hands. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“There  _ isn’t _ any deal, you dick.”

“I’m making the deal now. I don’t have to try your peanut beef. It’s against my rules.”

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“Louis.” He’s nearly shaking from trying to stop his laughter. “Do you want me to turn around when you try it? I do that for my 3-year-old niece. And my mom’s dog.”

“I’m not a child, nor am I a pet, Christ.” He looks down at his plate. “But yeah, you should turn around.”

Harry takes another bite of his own burger - which is fantastic, thank you very much - before he spins around in his chair. “Should I, like, count down?”

“No, shut up.” Harry listens as Louis mumbles under his breath, “It’s just a burger. Just take a bite. One bite and it’ll be all over.”

“Louis, for the love of God!”  
  
“Okay, I’m doing it!”

Harry counts to ten before he peeks over his shoulder. Louis’ mouth is full and he doesn’t look happy. “So?”

“I am so fucking pissed at you,” he says, chewing furiously.

“Why, is it that gross?” he asks, turning back around in his chair.

“No, it’s that fucking  _ good. _ ”

“Ha!”

Louis takes another bite, then another. “Don’t know how I’m gonna ever be able to top this date,” he says just before taking a third bite.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He grabs the attention of their waitress. “Excuse me? Would it be okay if I put in an order to go? The King burger, please.”

She smiles. “I’ll put that in right now.”  
  


* * *

  
The opposing team makes it to the arena the following afternoon, and Harry is in full beast mode before they even make it onto the court. He feels like he’s radiating electricity, amped with power, positively ready to conquer.

His parents called earlier to let him know they were making the trip down to watch. “Do we have to sit somewhere specific, or will any open seat do?”

“You can sit with my boyfriend,” he said, nearly exploding with laughter when he watched Louis’ eyes practically pop out of his head. “He’s gonna sit under the basket on the north side. I’ll point him out, but you probably won’t have any trouble finding him. He’s a loud mouth.”

After he hung up, Louis threw a pillow from off of the bed at him. “You just  _ decided _ we’re officially dating?! You weren’t even going to mention it?!”

Harry threw the pillow back, which Louis deflected. “Baby, will you be mine?”

“Gross.” He reached for his glasses on the nightstand. “And also, how about  _ asking _ if I want to meet your parents!”

“Will you meet my parents?”

He pouted, but slid back under the sheets next to Harry. “Ugh. Yes. And yes.”

Now, on the court, with 37 seconds to spare, they’re up by only five points. It’s been a close game all night, and Harry has been  _ thriving _ off of the pressure. Out of their 79 points, he’s responsible for 45 of them

Louis has clearly abandoned all sense of control, screaming louder than Harry has ever heard him every time Harry hits his mark, and unlike in weeks prior, his outrageous cheering seems to be helping Harry’s performance. After his fourth three-pointer of the night, he points at Louis in the stands and mouths, “That’s for you.” Louis responds by standing up and exaggeratingly flexing his muscles. Harry has to force himself to look away so he doesn’t start hysterically laughing.

They end up winning by one fucking point and Harry is so happy, so incredibly relieved, that he nearly sinks to the floor. He glances up to find Louis but sees a missing spot next to his parents instead. He looks around, wondering where he went, but the floor is suddenly filled with press and fans alike. A camera is shoved in his face and searching for Louis, now, is impossible.

Press takes nearly an hour. He has to hang back with Coach while the rest of the team gets to shower and head home; apparently, no one has scored as many points as Harry just did in a single game in nearly 15 years, and it’s a pretty big deal. He talks to six different reporters and completes two live interviews before he’s finally allowed to make his way down to the locker room.

It’s nearly empty when he gets down there with the exception of a janitor lingering by the end of the hallway, and Liam who saunters out of the locker room, duffel bag slung over his right shoulder.

“Awesome game, H,” he says, patting him on the back.

“You, too. Did everyone head home?”

“Yeah, I kicked ‘em all out. You’re welcome.” He winks.

“Huh?” But Liam is out of sight before Harry can really question it.

All he can think about is showering, calling Louis, and then crashing. He doesn’t feel like thinking about Liam’s dumb mind games.

He nudges open the door with his shoulder and nearly falls backward when he sees he’s not alone.

“Are you… Wearing my away game jersey?”

Louis shrugs, touching the top. “And nothing else.” The jersey is long on Harry - untucked, it reaches halfway down his thighs - so on Louis, it’s an inch or two away from being an actual dress. He looks so fucking sexy, acting as if it’s a casual thing to be standing in the men’s locker room after hours, wearing  _ just _ Harry’s jersey. Louis turns around to show off the back, and Harry is immediately drawn to the swell of his ass under the material. “ _ I’m _ number 33 now.”

Harry swallows. Or tries to, anyway. “How’d you get down here?”

“I ran right at the end of the game so no one would be paying close enough attention to keep me out.”

Brilliant. “You’re… You look… Wait.” Harry shakes his head. “Did any of the guys see you down here like this?”

“Yes, and I let them take pictures of me as I undressed myself.”

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “No, no one saw me like this. I’m pretty sure they caught on, though. Probably why they all got out of here so quickly.”

“Probably.” Harry slowly walks toward Louis. “Was there a reason behind…” He gestures toward Louis’ bare legs. “This.”

“Wanted to try to top our date last night.”

He nods. “You win.” He surges forward and cups Louis’ jaw in his hands, Louis meeting him with no resistance, and he kisses him the way he’s learned Louis likes. It’s sloppy, it’s desperate; all of Harry’s fatigue is completely gone.

Harry drops his hands to grip at Louis’ bare ass, squeezing and kneading, and Louis lets out a choked off sigh. “Feels good,” he murmurs as Harry traces his finger along the inside of his cheeks.

“Gonna let me fuck you in the locker room?”

Louis smirks. “No, I’m not.”

Harry pulls back slightly, confused. “What’d you have in mind, baby?”

He kisses up Harry’s neck and bites at his ear. “I’m gonna drop to my knees for you and suck you off while I’m still in your jersey. Does that work for you?”

He positively can’t swallow. He says the first thing that comes to mind: “I think I saw this in a porno once.”

Louis drops his head to Harry’s shoulder, letting out a broken laugh. “You’ve killed it.”

“No! No, I didn’t! Get on your knees!”

He’s still laughing. “You’re  _ horrible. _ ” But he drops down to the floor anyway, pulling Harry’s shorts off.

“Wait, do you want me to shower? I just played a game…”

“No. I like the way you smell.”

“Why is that so hot to me, that you like that?”

Louis doesn’t answer - just smirks - and then takes Harry’s cock into his mouth, sucking like he’s wanted this all night.

Harry cannot  _ believe _ how good Louis is at this. It makes him a little jealous, honestly, that he’s done this to someone else before, but he’s willing to override that when Louis swirls his tongue around the tip and  _ moans _ like he’s getting off on it, too. 

Louis looks up at him with glassy eyes, mouth completely full, and Harry can’t do anything but push his hips forward and grunt out his own moan, overwhelmed by how good Louis’ mouth feels.

“Lou, I’m really close, you’re so fucking gorgeous, I can’t help it,” he grits out, pushing Louis’ hair out of his eyes to watch.

Louis pulls off and jerks him quickly, thumbing over the tip. “Want you to come.” He sinks back down eagerly, using more pressure and suction than before. It doesn’t take more than a minute before Harry is squeezing his eyes shut, choking out Louis’ name, and spilling into his mouth, hips still thrusting aimlessly.

Louis sinks all the way down to the floor, breathing heavy, and his voice is completely raw and scratchy when he says, “Wanted to do that for weeks now.”

Harry bends down and grabs him by the wrists, pulling him off of the ground. “Come here.” He drags him into the shower, pulling off both of their jerseys, and he gets his hand around Louis’ cock the second the water hits them, so fucking turned on.

The hot water feels incredible on his back; it always feels perfect after a long game. But this time, he has a gorgeous boy whimpering in front of him, hands gripping his biceps, thrusting his cock into the tight circle of Harry’s hand.

When Louis starts to lose it, Harry has to bite back words he isn’t sure if he’s ready to say yet. He can feel them forming on the tip of his tongue, and he swallows them down, nervous to scare Louis off with how absolutely crazy he is about him. Some words still manage to slip out, though.

“Lou, come on, baby. Come for me. You’re so sexy, so completely gorgeous. I’m so fucking lucky to have you, can’t believe my damn luck that I get to call you mine.” He kisses the spot behind Louis’ ear that drives him mad. “Think you’re the person I’ve been waiting for, and I didn’t even know I was waiting, fuck.”

Louis comes, holding onto Harry impossibly tighter, and it takes him a while to come down from it. Harry wraps his arms around him, still whispering words into Louis’ ear, letting the hot water cascade around them.

He’s not in love yet, at least, he doesn’t think he is, but Christ, if these past few months together is any indication of what’s to come, Harry is beyond ready for it, ready to fall, ready for all of  _ Louis. _ It’s so easy, so simple, and Harry gives in, pressing his lips to Louis’ one more time.  
  


* * *

  
A month later, they make it to the semifinals and lose horribly, crushed by a final score of 101-77. It’s an away game, too, meaning most of their typical fans weren’t in the crowd to support them.

_ Most _ of the fans, anyway.

Louis drove the five hours to watch it, dragging Zayn along with him, and he waved a fluorescent pink poster throughout the duration of the game that read “Styles’ Number One Harasser.” He’d crossed out harasser and wrote “Fan” next to it, but the sentiment still stands.

It's distracting in the  _ best _ way.

“Your boy is nuts,” Liam says as they head down to the locker room.

“He is. I fucking love him.”

The words are out before he even realizes what he’s just said, but it  _ works. _ It really is just that simple.

He heads out of the locker room with a smile plastered to his face, and David stops him just before he opens the door. “Mighty cheery for someone who just lost the semifinals.”

Harry shrugs and kicks open the door with his foot. “Mind holding the bus for me? I’m gonna go find Louis real quick. I have to tell him something.”

“Better not take too long, Styles. It better be fucking important, I'm not responsible for you if you miss the bus.”

“I won't be long, I swear,” he calls over his shoulder.

He jogs out into the arena, which is mostly cleared out, and easily spots Louis and Zayn along the wall leading to the exit. Zayn spots Harry first and nudges Louis, pointing him out on the floor. Louis waves and stops walking, waiting for Harry, and Harry picks up the pace, eager to reach his boy.

He swallows, a thousand and one words on the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell Louis how grateful he is that he's found someone so disgustingly supportive, win or lose, in whatever he does. He wants to tell Louis he nearly goes out of his damn mind every morning that he gets to wake up next to him, because he's so beautiful, and it makes Harry’s chest ache. He wants to tell Louis that even when he's terrible, he's still the best person that Harry has ever known, the best thing about his life. He wants to tell Louis that for those reasons, among infinite others, he fell in love with him so quickly, it nearly felt like whiplash, and he's never been happier.

So he does.

He tells Louis all of it, letting every single word he's ever had about him slip out, not caring that Zayn is there or that he's still in a sweaty uniform or that the event staff is telling them to get out of the arena, losing patience by the second.

“And that’s… You're it for me, Lou. And I just love you so much that losing still feels like winning.”

Louis’ reaction is so, so worth it, even when he misses the bus.  
  


* * *

__  
Epilogue/Prologue  
  


Louis settles in the hard, plastic chair, happy to have a plate of nachos on his lap. “Thanks for coming with me, Zayn.”

Zayn sneers. “Not sure I really had a choice in the matter.”

“You could have said no.”

“You pinched my arm until I nearly drew blood!”

“Yeah, ‘nearly’ being the operative word.”

“You’re fucking impossible.”

Louis smiles. “Here, have a nacho.”

Zayn groans but takes a handful, anyway. “So, what’s the sudden interest in basketball?” he asks, mouth full.

He shrugs. “I dunno, really. It’s the first game of the season and a bunch of people were talking in one of my classes about how this was supposed to be a phenomenal season. I didn’t go much last year. Thought it might be fun.”

“Oh, right, how  _ fun _ to be stuck to these horrible, disgusting chairs.”

“You are truly just the most miserable human I’ve ever met. No more nachos for you.”

The game starts a few minutes after that, and Louis recognizes Kendrick from the year prior, as well as Liam and and Clay from around campus. He does  _ not, _ however, recognize number 33. He gets put in about four minutes into the first half and it’s clear immediately that he’s immensely talented.

And immensely beautiful. Louis can tell how gorgeous he is even from 25 rows back.

“Zayn.” Louis nudges him with his shoulder.

He doesn’t bother looking up from his phone. “What.”

“Who’s 33?”

“Louis, I don’t even know what  _ basket _ our team is shooting at, never mind one of the players.”

Point taken.

“Okay, but we need to find out, because I think I love him.”

“Your wedding will be lovely.”

“I know.”

Louis continues to stare at 33, curls bouncing even though they’re held back by a headband, and his  _ arms. _ Louis wants to scream.

The game ends - an easy win - and Louis frowns when 33 disappears into the tunnel leading to the locker room. He looks over at Zayn, eyes hopeful.

“Don’t even think about it, Tomlinson.”

“What?!”

“We are  _ not _ going down there. He’s a fucking basketball player, not a piece of meat at the butcher, for fuck’s sake.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Your creepy eyes said enough. Let’s get out of here.”

“Ugh. Fine.”  
  


* * *

  
Louis’ walking out of class the next week when he sees Niall at the end of the hall. He’s chatting with someone, and as he gets closer, it dawns on him that Niall is talking to number 33.

Tall and curly leaves before Louis reaches them, and Louis resists the urge to punch himself in the face. “Niall, who was that?”

“Harry Styles. Nice guy. He just transferred in this year.”

“I think I saw him at the basketball game the other night.”  _ Biggest understatement of the century _

“You definitely did. He’s awesome. That’s why he transferred here. I guess we gave him a shit ton of money to play for us, and thank God we did. I heard he basically carried the win for us.”

Louis nods. “It’s true.”

“Well, good for him. Alright, I’m off. I have class in…” He looks down at his phone. “Seven minutes ago.”

Louis laughs. “Run.”  
  


* * *

  
He makes Zayn go with him to the next game, and the next one,  _ and _ the next one after that. Louis picks seats that are closer to the court each time, and Zayn tells him he’s crazy.

“You’re acting like he’s gonna notice you in the stands and say, ‘Wow, what a glorious creature, I must have him now.’”

Louis snaps his fingers. “You’re right.”

Zayn looks mildly surprised. “I am?”

“I need to do something to get him to notice me.”

“Wait, that’s not what I said…”

“Should I streak across the court?”

“Louis, what the fuck, no.”

“Throw something at him? Like a book. Or a beer bottle.”

“Are you listening to yourself?!”

Louis stops to think. “I’ll become a cheerleader. They’re on the court all the time. Who would forget this body in a cheerleader’s uniform?”

“No one would ever be able to forget that, even if they tried, and believe me,  _ everyone _ would be trying.” Zayn grabs Louis by the back of the neck. “Listen to me. You’re insane. You’re acting like you’ve never flirted with someone before. Or interacted with a human once in your life.”

Louis bats his hand away. “What’s your point.”

“Just fucking talk to him. You don’t need to… Throw stuff at him like he’s a monkey at the zoo, Jesus Christ. Be yourself.”

He pauses, then nods. “Oh, you are  _ so _ gonna regret what you just said.”

Zayn puts his face into his hands and his voice comes out muffled. “I already do.”  
  


* * *

  
“Louis, when I told you to be yourself, I didn’t mean embarrass the fuck out of me and everyone around us.”

It’s a week later and Louis has successfully gotten Harry Styles’ attention for the first time. Apparently, shrieking whilst doing the wave at the wrong time seemed to do the trick.

It also got the attention of just about everyone else in the arena, but that’s neither here nor there.

“You told me to be myself, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m being loud. And funny.”

“This isn’t funny, you dick. This is mortifying.”

“It’s working. Be quiet.”

“And what exactly are you going to tell him when he approaches you? ‘I screamed like a banshee for 90 minutes so you would fall in love with me. It’s nice to meet you.’”

Louis snorts. “ _ Honestly, _ Zayn. No. I’ll just play dumb. I’ll tell him it was about school spirit. Pride, and all that.”

“Good, good. Starting off on a giant lie. Excellent.”

“It’s not technically a lie. I love my school.”

“And I love it, too, but you don’t see me screaming so loud that I’m popping blood vessels.”

“Wait, do I have popped blood vessels?!”

“You will when I punch you in the eye in about seven seconds.”  
  


* * *

  
It’s been two days and Harry still hasn’t sought out Louis.

“I don’t know what you thought would happen, Lou. Would you approach someone who was making a total fucking ass of himself?” Zayn looks at Louis and rolls his eyes. “Do you know how hard it is to take you seriously when you have all that damn paint all over your face?”

The blue paint is dripping a bit, stinging when it reaches the corner of his eye. “Sorry, Zayn, I can’t hear you,” he shouts, blowing the air horn as Kendrick scores. He presses the button down just a beat longer every time Harry scores.

“You’re fucking up his game. Look at him. He can’t focus. You’re being a brat.”

Harry looks up at Louis, then, and Louis blows the horn.  
  


* * *

  
Zayn, bless his soul, agrees to go to yet another game. Louis rewards him by laughing louder than necessary at just about everything and whipping popcorn at him whenever Zayn lets his guard down.

The crowd does the wave, and this time, Louis doesn’t participate.

“Thank God,” Zayn mumbles under his breath, but when he sees Louis yank a cowbell out from the inside of his bag, he curses. “Are you fucking kidding, Tomlinson?”

He rings the bell in Zayn’s face and moments later, Harry gets drilled in the face with the ball.  
  


* * *

  
“I’m never coming again. You’re psychotic.”

“Zaynie, be nice, we’re only two rows behind the bench. All the players can hear you.”

“They can hear you, too!”

“Good. That’s the point.  _ I’m _ being delightful.  _ You’re _ a giant grump.”

“You clearly don’t know the definition of the word ‘delightful,’ do you?”

Louis ignores Zayn and focuses on Liam, hoping some healthy jealousy will grab Harry’s attention. He screams out, “Ow, ow!” when Liam steps up to take his free throw, and his shriek is downright ear piercing when Liam surprises the crowd with a perfect three-pointer directly after.

Harry turns around and stares directly at Louis, rage written all over his face, so Louis does the only logical thing he can think of: he winks at Liam and flashes a bright smile when Liam blows him a kiss in return.

Harry turns back around on the bench and Louis can’t help but smirk as he watches the back of his neck turn a deep shade of red.  
  
  
Liam finds Louis after the game and invites him to the afterparty.

“It’ll be a good time. All the players will be there.”

Louis’ eyes light up at that. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, you can bring your friend if you want to,” he says, gesturing toward Zayn.

“No fucking way am I going. Nuh uh. Call Niall or something. I’m tagging out of this one,” Zayn answers with his hands up in the air, like he’s calling a truce.

Liam’s eyes go wide. “Okay… Sorry. Wait, who’s Niall?”

Zayn shakes his head. “No, it’s not your fault. Just. Please take custody of Louis. I’m sick of him. Maybe he’ll behave better for you than he does for me.”

“Okay…” he says again, clearly still very confused.

“Mom, Dad, stop bickering,” Louis says. “I’m trying to formulate a plan here.”

“A plan for what?” Liam asks.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” Zayn says, bags under his eyes darker than usual.

“Why don’t I wanna know the answer to that?”

“Guys, shh!” Louis points to his phone up against his ear. “Niall, my love! What are you doing tonight?"  
  
  
  
Louis sets up camp with Niall in the kitchen of the disgusting frat house. Why they chose to cram hundreds of sweaty college students into one gross house, including 20 oversized basketball players, is beyond him. But it’ll do.

He knows when Harry arrives, he can tell by the cheering at the front door, but he doesn’t go toward the noise. He’s waiting for the noise to come to him.

Niall tells Louis he’s ridiculous; Louis tells Niall he pronounced  _ patient _ wrong.

Louis lingers with other people in the kitchen - a couple of girls from his psych 101 class from freshman year and a guy named Luke that used to live on his floor - until he loses track of time.

And drinks. He definitely loses track of drinks.

He’s very,  _ very _ dizzy by the time midnight rolls around and he has to stand up against the back wall of the kitchen to regain his footing whilst simultaneously using Niall’s shoulder as a crutch. He’s about to call it a night when he realizes Harry is heading in his direction and suddenly, everything about this is absolutely hysterical.

He can’t stop laughing, even when Harry is about two feet from his face. He swallows heavily and asks, “Can I help you?”

Harry’s gaze is piercing and Louis can’t stop the squirmy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Hi.”

And it begins.  
  


* * *

  
Zayn goes to one more game with Louis, after Louis swore up and down that he would behave.

“I don’t believe you,” Zayn had said matter-of-factly.

“You don’t have to believe me. Just see. And if you want to leave halfway through, then you can go.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, but alright…”

Louis chooses seats pretty far back; they’re some of the only seats left in the entire arena, but he has a decent view of both sides of the court - and of Harry - so he’s fine with it.

True to his word, Louis only lets out one inappropriate noise, and it’s when he sees Harry staring at him, smiling brightly.

“I just don’t believe it,” Zayn says in awe towards the end of the game. “It’s like you’ve got on an invisible muzzle.”

“Yeah, well,” he says with a shrug. “My plan worked. He found me at a party and we talked and I don’t need to get his attention anymore. I’ve already got it.”

Zayn breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thank  _ God. _ Now you’ve got it all out of your system and we don’t have to come anymore.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.”

“Fuck. Why.”

“Because we  _ talked. _ ”

“So you’ve said.”

“Zayn. We’re still talking.”

“And…”

“And now I actually like him.”

Zayn looks like he’s been hit by a truck. “So what you’re saying is now you don’t have just a physical attraction.”

“Right.”

“And you genuinely like him.”

“Correct.”

“And that we’re both going to die in this gymnasium.”

“Spot on, Malik.”

“Jesus.” Zayn rips off a piece of pretzel from out of Louis’ hand. “I hope he’s worth it.”

Louis claps along with the crowd as Harry steals from the other team and completes a flawless layup. He points at Louis and winks. “Yeah, I’ve got a feeling.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Rita. Love you x

The frat house is disgusting, and that’s the understatement of the year.

Louis has been to some fairly gross parties in his day, but this one might take the cake. He’s only been here for about 20 minutes and the first floor is already covered in empty beer cans, reeking of stale Coors and weak tasting rum. The tile beneath his sneakers are sticky, and every time he shifts his weight between his feet, it sounds like Velcro being ripped, his shoes nearly stuck to the linoleum.

Gross.

Niall leans his head against the wall - the only spot without remnants of beat up paint or unidentifiable marks - and groans loudly. “Louis, this sucks.”

“Don’t be annoying, you’re fine.”

“I don’t  _ want _ to be here. Why couldn’t you have asked Zayn?”

“Because Zayn isn’t as good at partying as you are.”

“True, but what about this scenario constitutes as partying? You won’t let me leave the kitchen. It’s basically just us two.”

Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, pointing to a girl when she walks into the room. “Just us two, plus this beautiful girl.”

She smiles and puts her hands over her chest. “Oh, God, stop!”

He winks at her and turns back to Niall, who looks like he wants to choke himself. “If you  _ really _ want to, you can leave.”

“Can I, though?”

He smirks. “No.”

Niall groans again. “Remind me again  _ why _ you can’t just approach him like a normal person?”

“Calling me ‘normal’ is offensive, for one, and two, because that’s not how I operate. I’ve been chasing him for weeks. It’s his turn.”

“But did he  _ know _ you were chasing him?”

“Whose side are you on, Horan?”

“The side that involves getting out of this fucking nasty kitchen.”

“Shut up and drink, and if you leave me, you die.”

The two of them remain in the back of the frat house, Niall complaining obnoxiously, Louis bribing him to stay quiet with more alcohol, and by the time a round of cheering goes through the front of the house, Louis is nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s here.

Niall raises his brows. “Alright, Tommo, go on.”

“Nope,” Louis replies firmly. “Still gotta wait for him to come to me.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“That’s a weird way to pronounce ‘patient.’”

He looks pained. “Gimme another drink. So I can tolerate you.”

Louis loses track of time after that, losing focus on the boy in the other room who’s the cause of all the cheering, and instead, hands drinks to Niall, to everyone that walks through the kitchen, holding onto a few too many for himself.

But then a few too many turns into  _ way _ too many, and Louis is drunk, positively wasted. He needs to lean up against the wall for balance, not caring about the unidentifiable splotches beside his head that he can see out of his peripheral. He reaches out to grab for Niall’s shoulder and misses entirely, nearly stumbling forward.

“Niall,” he slurs, “my boy. I need you.”

Niall laughs, his own eyes glassy now. “What for?”

“For stability. For strength.” Louis hiccups. “Why are we still in this kitchen?”

“That’s a good fucking question!” he shouts, but he’s still laughing, even harder now. “Oh my God, did I ever tell you about the time I fell off my roof?”

“What?!” His vision is blurry and his brain is spinning and the idea of Niall falling off a roof is so ridiculously  _ Niall _ that he can’t help but snort at the concept. He grips Niall’s shoulder, hanging onto him, thinking if he doesn’t concentrate hard enough, he really might fall over.

He’s about to call it a night, to tell Niall he’s ready to go home, that he can’t do this for a second longer, but then he sees the reason why he holed up in this dingy frat house all night is approaching him, his brows furrowed, tripping over his own feet. Louis squeezes Niall’s shoulder harder, digging his nails into his skin, and all of this is suddenly horribly funny. Louis can’t stop himself from bursting into laughter, his entire body shaking with it, and Niall joins in, the lousy drunk.

Louis is still laughing when number 33 is about two feet from his face, his expression serious, but his cheeks are definitely red from alcohol and it’s hard to take the hard glare seriously. “Can I help you?” Louis manages to ask, pretending he doesn’t, in fact, know this is Harry Styles.

His eyes frantically travel across Louis’ face, and the intensity behind it makes Louis’ stomach muscles tense up. “Hi.”

Louis’ focus is back, even with Niall still chuckling beside him, even with Harry so close for Louis to be able to smell the booze on his breath, the lingering scent of cologne on his skin.  _ This _ is what he came here to do. Harry may have been on the winning team earlier, but now, it’s Louis’ game, and he’s going to come out on top. He clears his throat. “Hi…”

Harry looks confused. “You keep laughing,” he says, shaking his head.

He bites back a smirk, loving how Harry is somehow already flustered. They haven’t even  _ started _ yet. “I keep laughing?”

“You do. You keep laughing at me during games and you’re laughing right now and you have very blue eyes. I didn’t know.” He pauses to hiccup. “I didn’t know that you had such blue eyes.”

Niall erupts out laughing, for what feels like the millionth time in the past five minutes. “That’s eloquent, Harry.”

“Why do you keep laughing at me?” he continues, ignoring Niall entirely.

Louis crosses his arms, biting at his bottom lip. “I wasn’t laughing at you, babe,” he replies softly, letting the pet name roll off his tongue easily. “I didn’t know you were around. And my eyes. You like ‘em?”

Harry nods, his cheeks growing redder. “They’re blue.”

“So you said.”

“And like. I didn’t know that.”

“It appears that way.”

“Mine are green.”

“I can see them.”

“I had a lot to say and I can’t remember any of it.”

Louis smiles. Harry can’t seem to stop staring at the way Louis’ blinking, at the way Louis’ tapping his fingers against his thighs. “It’s okay, take your time.”

Harry clenches his fists. “I’m bad at basketball now.”

He snorts at that. “You are  _ not. _ I’ve been to every game since the start of the season. You’ve been getting better, Styles. Your point average has gone up, like, between five-11 points per game. Your turnover rate is remarkable, honestly, and when was the last time you missed a free throw? The only one who’s doing better than you this year is Kendrick and he’s a senior, so it’s totally expected.”

Harry freezes. “You know my stats?”

“Uh. Big fan of the team, and all. You know,” he stutters out, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Sounds like it.” Hiccup, hiccup.

“Trust me,” Louis tries to backtrack, “you’re not doing bad by any stretch of the imagination.”

Harry looks down at the floor, his movements sluggish. “I was really mad at you, for a very long time.”

Niall nudges Louis and Louis ignores him, crossing his arms. “Care to explain why?”

“You’re very distracting.”

“Right now?” He needs Harry to clarify.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head again. “No. Well, yes, but I mean during games. You’re my loud boy.”

Louis breaks out into a grin, and he’s pretty sure everyone passing through the kitchen can hear his heart beating. “I’m  _ your _ loud boy?”

Harry blushes, a vibrant shade of scarlet. “You’re just very fucking loud and it throws me off during the game and I keep getting pulled out because of you.”

Wait, no. “Hey, I’m not responsible for you falling flat on your ass,” Louis corrects, “or how inconsistent you’ve been over the past few weeks. I’m not in charge of the way your limbs work.”

He frowns. “No. I mean.” He throws his hands up in the air, nearly smacking Niall in the face, and Niall scoffs. “I  _ know _ you’re not in control of  _ this, _ ” he says gesturing stupidly to his body. “You throw me off balance. And I’m trying to impress scouts. I can’t do that with you screaming in the stands two rows back. I really can’t. You seriously have to stop.”

Oh. Louis can feel his exterior crumbling, just slightly, because the plan went in the complete reverse direction of what he wanted. Harry is potentially genuinely annoyed, could actually not want him around. Shit. “I didn’t mean any harm by it,” he says, treading lightly. “Honestly. I was just showing some school spirit, you know? But if it makes it easier, I won’t come.”

“Okay, thanks.” Harry pauses, frowning. “Wait, you don’t have to stay home when we play.”

He barks out a laugh, isn’t quite sure what else to do at this point. “What exactly do you want from me?!”

“I think I want you there. I just don’t want you shrieking bloody murder.”

“I’m not sure I can turn that off, Styles.” He smirks. “Or if I want to.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

Niall laughs. “That is the most accurate thing you’ve  _ ever _ said, you have no idea.”

Louis bites at his bottom lip, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Harry sighs, sucking in his cheeks. “Your face is perfect.”

“I  _ think _ ,” he replies, inhaling sharply, “that you’re veering from the main topic of discussion.”

“Your face is perfect” Harry continues, “and I think I want you in the stands at the games. Just try not to be a lunatic, okay? I think I could like having you there as long as there isn’t an air horn or a cow bell in your possession.”

He smiles, blinking slowly. “Sounds like you’ve done a lot of thinking.”

“‘m trying,” he mumbles.

“Look.” Louis licks his lips, waits for Harry to focus his full attention on him again, and when he’s staring again, Louis feels hot all over. “I just like to have a good time, and sometimes that means embarrassing Zayn, sometimes that means pissing you off, apparently. But. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll work on toning it down.”

“Wait, who’s Zayn?”

“My friend that I usually force to come with me to the games. Black hair.”

“The guy who acts like being at a basketball game is the worst thing in the entire world?”

“No, the guy who acts like being at a basketball game with  _ me _ is the worst thing in the entire world.” Louis stares directly into Harry’s eyes, and all the background noise in the house sounds like static. “Are you still mad at me?”

Harry sighs. “No. I’m not mad at you anymore,” he says, then pouts. “But I  _ am _ mad at Liam and Clay now.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, rocking up onto his tiptoes.

“Because they told me if I met you I would love you and I told them there was no way and I don’t like being wrong.”

Louis smiles again.  _ Bingo _ . “Aww, you  _ love _ me?” He bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly, living for the way Harry can’t quit ogling him, his entire body.

“Probably,” Harry mutters.

He’s vaguely aware of Niall pretending to gag, of the tinny noise from the bass in the other room, of the way his head won’t stop pounding, but the tips of his shoes are touching Harry’s and the back of their hands are brushing together and if Louis was obsessed with number 33  _ before _ , then he’s completely screwed from here on out.

 

He leaves the frat house an hour later with Harry’s number in his phone, a smile on his face, and even when he trips over nothing on the sidewalk and nearly breaks his ankle in the process, he’s considering this night a win.

* * *

**_Two years later_ **

The arena is packed. Louis knows his eyes are comically wide as he weaves his way in and out of tables, cameras lining the perimeter of the space, lights bright and audience noisy with excited chatter. He adjusts his tie and clears his throat, falling into step beside Harry, both following an older man who directs them to a table up front.

“Harry, this is nuts,” he says under his breath. “I had no idea it was such a huge production.”

“The NBA draft?” Harry snorts, dragging his hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s kind of a massive deal.”

Louis steals a moment to look around, watching the fans in the stands cheer as they get ready, at the players seated around the hundreds of tables on the covered floor, at the stage with banners representing basketball teams all across the U.S. It’s overwhelming for  _ him _ ; he can’t imagine what’s running through Harry’s mind right now.

Harry’s mouth is set in a straight line as he pulls Louis’ chair out for him, his movements almost robotic. Louis slides onto his seat, drumming his fingers mindlessly on the table, thinking of something to say that will distract Harry from his nerves.

“Hey, Styles,” he starts, trying to grab his attention, “you look really fucking hot tonight.”

Harry snorts. “Thanks.” He immediately turns his attention back to the main stage, and Louis can see the beads of sweat on the nape of his neck, curls doing nothing to hide it.

“I mean it,” Louis continues. “You’d be my number one pick just based on your face alone.”

“Mhm,” he agrees, obviously not focused on Louis, squinting into the brights projected from the screen on stage. He’s bouncing his leg up and down, a nervous habit.

Louis frowns. “Harry, you’re gonna get picked.”

He doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply.

“Harry. You’re gonna need to calm the fuck down. Look at me.”

Harry doesn’t turn to look, he doesn’t even flinch at the tone in Louis’ voice. “Sure.”

“I think you’re underestimating my ability to hold your attention. It’s like you’re forgetting how we met.”

He finally looks at that. “Yeah, like I could forget you blatantly harassing me for half the season. What do you want.”

Louis slides his palm onto Harry’s thigh, squeezing. “Do you think my ass looks good in these pants?”

“Hey, remember when you played hard to get? That was fun. Now stop touching me. I have to focus on this.”

He pouts, furrowing his brow. He grips Harry’s leg harder. “You have to relax.  _ Baby _ .”

Harry makes a confused face. “What the fuck, don’t call me baby.”

“You’re a phenomenal player,” Louis says, his voice low enough that Harry has to lean into him to be able to hear it. Good. “You’re the top player Syracuse has seen in 35 years. That’s insane, kid. People have been talking about you for  _ years _ now. Today is your day. You don’t have to worry about not being picked.”

He licks his lips, nodding. “I think I want this more than anything.”

“And you’re gonna get it. I’m not just saying it to make you feel better. When do I ever do that?”

Harry laughs at that, thank God. “Never.”

“Exactly.” Louis smirks and presses a fleeting kiss to his cheekbone. “Can’t believe I’m dating a famous basketball star.”

“Can’t believe I’m dating Louis Tomlinson,” he replies, finally reaching down to link their fingers together. “Lou, what if I get picked for a team that’s far away from here. From you. What do we do then.”

“Then you move away to play and I’ll go to as many games as I can and you come home to me in the off season,” he says firmly, pretending that he hasn’t already thought about this a million and one times, his heart aching whenever he thinks about Harry leaving him.

“But we’re only halfway through watching  _ 30 Rock _ . I need to know how it ends.”

“Are you suggesting you give up on playing for a professional basketball team to stay at home with me and watch a mediocre comedy starring Alec Baldwin?”

Harry stares blankly. “Possibly.”

“What happened to you wanting a basketball career more than anything?”

“I think I might want you more.”

Louis scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “I think you’re gonna be the sixth pick of the draft.”

“Jeez, that’s a little high up there.”

“It’s not high  _ enough _ ,” he corrects. “You should be number two.”

“Number two? Why not number one?”

“Um, have you been paying attention to Ian Douglas this past year? Kid’s stats are out of this world.”

Harry laughs. “Keeping me grounded. I appreciate that.”

Louis hums, wiggling his hand out of Harry’s grip, cupping the back of Harry’s neck, instead. “I’m proud of you.”

“Nothing has happened yet.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Harry smiles, relaxing into his chair. “Thank you.”

 

He doesn’t end up being the second pick, or the sixth.

The announcer gets up on stage, his smile smug when he stands in front of the podium, tapping into the microphone. The Los Angeles Lakers logo scrolls across the screen, signaling they have the first pick, and Louis selfishly prays Harry isn’t good enough for pick number one. California is too far from New York.

“The first draft pick for the Lakers goes to Jameson LaValle from the University of Oklahoma,” he says, the crowd booming into applause and cheering, and Jameson leaps out of his seat from a few tables over. Harry claps politely, his eyes a little wider than usual, and Louis’ suit feels constricting. It’s suddenly all very real.

“Pick number two,” the announcer says as the screen changes to the Chicago Bulls’ logo, “goes to Dante Hutch from Providence College.”

Louis looks around the arena as several Bulls fans in the stands get to their feet and cheer, chanting Dante’s name. He has fans already, fresh out of college. He briefly wonders if anyone is here for Harry, other than himself.

The announcer continues to spit out names, a few Louis hasn’t heard of, a few he has, and with each passing round, he grows more and more tense.  _ Say Harry Styles. Say it. _ One look at Harry’s posture proves he’s thinking the same thing.

Boston has pick number seven; Charlotte has pick number eight. Neither city picks Harry. And even though Louis knows there are 60 picks total, it feels like they’re already at the end, like they’ve already lost. He thinks he might start screaming.

The Miami Heat’s logo pops up on the screen, and the bell starts chiming, signaling they’ve made their decision. The announcer nods at the crowd. “Pick number nine goes to Harry Styles, from Syracuse University.”

Louis nearly throws up when the camera pans to their table, relieved and happy and so tightly wound, he thinks he could black out. He jumps to his feet when Harry does, who immediately pulls Louis in for a crushing, suffocating hug. Harry’s chest is heaving, his hands gripping the back of Louis’ jacket, and when Louis whispers, “You did it,” Harry’s entire body shakes.

He burrows his head further into Harry’s chest, the noise from the crowd ringing in his ears, almost like static, but he tunes in just in time to hear a chant in the stands above him, a small group from Miami cheering Harry’s name.

It looks like Louis isn’t the  _ only _ one here to support his boy.

 

After the draft is over, all the new picks stand in front of what feels like a thousand cameras, the flashing bright and blinding. Harry proudly holds up a Miami Heat jersey in front of his chest, showing off his new school colors, and Louis makes a promise not to tease him when he realizes Harry is the only one actually smiling for the photos. He clearly missed the mugshot vibes that the rest of the players are going with and he looks impossibly young, his eyes crinkled in the corners and his curls a wild mess.

Louis won’t tease Harry  _ tonight _ , anyway. He’ll save that for later.

* * *

Harry is set to move to Miami at the end of August, and each day closer feels like the upcoming weeks prior to Christmas when you’re a kid. It’s nerves, excitement, joy, and a lot of preparation. Louis can’t help but smirk whenever he catches Harry looking up  _ things to do in Miami _ , as if he’s going to have an abundance of free time.

“You know you’re mostly going to be on the court, right?” he asks. “This isn’t, like, a vacation.”

“Obviously,” Harry replies. “But it’s just a one year contract. I might get traded somewhere else for next season, and I’d hate to not have taken advantage of the city while I was there, you know?”

“That is the most ‘Harry’ thing I have ever heard.”

He laughs, still scrolling through an online guide for tourists. “Also, I wanna have a place for  _ us _ . I know you won’t be there at every game, so when you  _ are _ there, it’ll be more special. And I need to make sure we have some places to go to that feel like ours, and not like you’re just visiting.” He shrugs. “That’s probably dumb.”

Louis purses his lips together and squeezes the back of Harry’s neck. “No, that’s not dumb.”

“Okay. Good.” He points to a restaurant on the screen. “This place is apparently known for its seafood. And it’s on the water. I figured you’d like that.”

He nods, not even bothering to see what the name of the restaurant is. “Perfect. That’ll be our place.”

Harry leaving also feels kind of like heartbreak, and Louis is doing his best to prepare himself for the inevitable blow.

 

They fly down to Miami together on the last Saturday of August, and the second they step off the airplane, Louis almost chokes.

“Harry’s it’s like the devil’s lair down here, what the fuck.”

Harry laughs, wiping his brow on the back of his wrist. “Yeah, it’s hot.”

“No, that’s an understatement. Oh my God. Why did I agree to help you move into your apartment?”

“Because you said you needed to know where I’m going to be living and you wanted to see the arena and because you love me.”

“Yeah, well, I take all of that back now. I hate Miami. It has alligators and too much sun and it’s stealing you from me.”

“On the way down here you said you were happy for me.”

“It comes and goes, I wouldn’t trust it.” Louis pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ugh, how many games do you have here again?”

Harry slips his hand into Louis’ as they make their way through the airport. “50 home, 50 away.”

“50 games stuck in the center of the sun, how unfortunate.” Louis squeezes Harry’s hand twice before he drops it, and just as they’re about to step onto the moving walkway, he notices someone holding up their phone, aimed at them. “Hey, Harry.”

“What?” he asks, tripping onto the conveyer belt, as expected.

“That guy was taking your picture.”

“What guy?”

“The guy in front of the Starbucks.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’m not stupid, Jesus.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Harry scratches his jaw, humming. “Why would he be taking my picture?”

Louis waits until they step off the walkway to answer. “Um, probably because you’re famous now.”

He snorts, readjusting his duffel bag over his shoulder. “I don’t know what planet you’re living on, baby, but where  _ I _ live, no one knows me.”

But then, at baggage claim, a teenager with Dwyane Wade’s jersey on nervously approaches Harry, telling him he’s already a big fan and can’t wait to see what he has in store for them for the upcoming season. He holds out a pen and a scrap of paper, stuttering over his words when he asks for an autograph.

Louis waits for the boy to be out of earshot and for Harry’s blush to go away entirely when he mutters, “Welcome to my planet.”

 

Harry’s apartment is  _ much _ nicer than the one they share in Western New York. It’s a stunning three-bedroom highrise overlooking the ocean and the majority of the city, the space decorated and detailed to perfection, and Louis whistles when he drags his fingers along the Viking stove.

“If anyone claims that I’m a gold digger, you can tell them that that’s actually true. This place is sick.”

Harry laughs, rolling his eyes. “It’s too much.”

“Buddy, at the end of next year, you’re gonna be a millionaire. You’re going to have  _ much _ nicer things than this apartment. New cars, new equipment for the gym at home…” He smirks. “New presents for your husband.”

“You really  _ are _ a gold digger, huh.”

“Don’t doubt me.” He stares out the window, squinting at the sunlight pouring through the floor to ceiling windows. Dust particles float around in the rays; it reminds him of their living room back home. “We don’t have to do much moving in, huh. You’re pretty much set up in here.”

“Looks that way.” Harry kicks off his shoes, not bothering to unpack his suitcase. “Doesn’t feel like I live here, though.”

“It will eventually.”

“I guess.” He shrugs. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “We’re in Miami on a Saturday and you want to sit down and watch a  _ movie _ ?”

“Yes, I want to order food and watch a movie with my boyfriend on this brand new couch that isn’t really mine and pretend that this is the place we do this  _ every _ weekend.” His frown is pitiful. “Is that okay with you?”

He pretends to ignore the way Harry’s voice cracks on the last word, just nods. “Yeah, yeah, that’s okay with me. Want me to order sandwiches or something?”

“Sure, or something.”

Louis bites his bottom lip. “You’re not going to sound ungrateful if you complain about moving here, Harry. It’s a big change. It’s a lot.”

“It  _ is _ a lot, but I  _ can’t _ complain.” Harry rubs mindlessly at the back of his neck. “Do you know how many people like me would  _ kill _ for this opportunity? Like, I got drafted for the NBA, Lou. In a ninth round pick. And I’m about to start crying that I’m gonna miss my boyfriend too much and I wanna give it all up to stay with him.”

“Whoa, hey.” He shakes his head, poking Harry in the chest. “Quitting isn’t an option. It’s going to be different for a while, obviously, but this is what you’ve been working towards since you were fucking eight years old. This doesn’t happen for most people, but it happened for  _ you _ . And you deserve it.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just nods.

“You know I’d move here with you, right?” Louis asks. “I would in a heartbeat but, I  _ just _ got my job. And it’s what I’ve wanted for years now.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask you to move here,” Harry says, eyes focused on Louis’.

“I can’t be here all the time, but I’m not going to miss a game. October 22nd. It’s drilled into my brain. First game for the Miami Heat. For my boy.”

He smiles at that. “Good job.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Louis says. “I don’t know if that’s a worry for you but, I’m not. This year is going to suck but it’s also going to be the best year of your life. And that makes me so, so happy.”

Harry’s eyes water at that. “Jesus Christ. I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“C’mere,” he says, smiling, and Louis goes easily.

Harry kisses him like he always does when he wants him, his hands warm on Louis’ back and his lips insistent against Louis’. Louis lets Harry pull him in close, closer, chests touching, breath mingling. Louis pulls back slightly, pressing his mouth to the underside of Harry’s jaw, and he groans.

“Not hungry anymore.”

“No?” Louis asks, smiling.

“No. Don’t wanna watch a movie, either.”

“What do you want?”

Harry slides his hands down the length of Louis’ spine, and Louis shakes. “I feel kind of gross from the plane. I think I’d rather shower.”

“Harry, if you want to fuck me in the shower, just say it.”

“Okay. I want to fuck you in the shower.”

“Jeez, so brazen about it…”

He rolls his eyes before he leans forward to kiss Louis again, hotter, with purpose, and by the time they’re both stepping under the hot spray together, nothing feels out of place.

As it should be.

* * *

 

Between Louis’ new work schedule and Harry’s practice schedule, Louis is only able to make it down to Florida one time before the regular season starts in late October. Leaving him that first weekend in August was hard - he had to nearly rip himself off of Harry at the airport security with stinging eyes and a weight on his chest - but coming back six weeks later feels  _ impossibly _ good. Harry picks him up at baggage claim, his smile radiant and contagious, and when he gets his arms wrapped around Louis’ frame, he whispers, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

Louis’ throat feels tight when he hugs him back tighter, murmuring, “I think I know.”

He goes to the arena with Harry for their Friday night practice, and for the full two hours, he’s silent, completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the court, the team, the energy. It’s  _ much _ bigger than the stands Louis is used to watching Harry from, to start. There are beer vendors and gift shops and advertisements scrolling across the electronic screens, broadcasting major companies as sponsors, like Honda and AT&T. Louis sits with his elbows on his knees, taking it all in, watching Harry run drills across the shiny hardwood, barely breaking a sweat. And for the first time in years, Harry isn’t the best one on the court, clearly has competition. Some of these guys have been actively playing for the NBA for years - most of whom tower over Harry in height and weight - but Harry doesn’t seem perturbed. In fact, it seems to spur him on, and by the end of practice, several players are slapping Harry on the back, telling him good work.

Later on, with Harry’s sheets around their waists and Harry’s fingers dragging across Louis’ bare skin, Louis tells him about the middle schoolers he’s been working with, about how they remind him so much of his own sisters. Harry listens intently, asking questions in the right places, and even though he’s clearly bone tired, he never asks Louis to stop talking, just encourages him to keep sharing.

It’s midnight when Louis’ eyelids feel heavy, the combination of traveling and Harry’s hands rubbing careful circles across his back lulling him to sleep. He squirms in closer into Harry’s arms, breathing in the scent of his hair. It smells different than usual.

“Are you still using coconut conditioner?” he murmurs.

Harry hums. “Yeah, changed the shampoo, though. I needed something for frizzy hair. It’s so humid down here.”

Louis smiles against Harry’s chest. “You could just cut your hair and then you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Alright, I’ll take a pair of shears to the mop tomorrow.”

“If you do that, you die.”

Harry laughs. “Thank you for coming to visit me.”

He nods, eyes completely shut now. “I wish I could come for your first game. I tried to figure it out, but I can’t make it happen with the work hours I have for the next few weeks.”

“It’s okay. Just tell me when you want a ticket and I’ll save you one.”

“Quite the perk, I must say.”

“Only the best for you.”

“Gross.” Louis twists his finger around one of Harry’s curls, doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where to reach. “I’ll be watching the first game, though. I promise. Gonna go out to get some red, yellow, and black facepaint.”

“Your dedication is astounding,” Harry murmurs against the top of Louis’ head.

Louis means to say something else after that, about how much he’s missed him, how happy he is that he was able to catch a glimpse of Harry doing something he loves so much, but fatigue is hitting hard. He doesn’t bother answering, just lets Harry’s breathing beside him ease him into sleep.

It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in awhile.

* * *

The night of the first game, Louis is a fucking wreck. He’d talked to Harry earlier in the day, and he’d sounded genuinely excited, surprisingly not too nervous for the first ever game of his career. Louis tried to keep his voice even as he exclaimed, “Okay, babe, good luck! I’ll be watching!” Now, though, he’s about ready to chew his fingernails off, the red and black lines of face paint starting to drip down his cheeks from the sweat building on his temples.

“Louis, the game hasn’t even started yet,” Liam says from beside him, perched on a bar stool. “You need to calm down.”

“Yeah, you have nothing to worry about,” Zayn adds from his other side. “Also, why did we decide it was best to watch the game at a bar? We should be at your apartment. You know, so you don’t start flipping tables.”

“I’m not gonna flip any fucking tables,” Louis sneers. “Might flip  _ you, _ though.”

“Nice. Why is this game even playing in here, anyway? It’s Miami versus Houston. Who around here cares about that?”

The bartender turns at Zayn’s question and gestures toward Louis. “He paid me $50 to put it on.”

“Louis!” Zayn exclaims. “Are you for real?!”

Louis shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. “What.”

Liam laughs, rolling his eyes. “We could watched it for free at home.”

He sets down his drink and pounds his fists on the bartop. “I needed to be somewhere with a constant flow of alcohol, now everyone,  _ shut up _ , the game is  _ starting _ .”

Harry isn’t one of the starters, much to Louis’ dismay (and relief), and he feels his body relax about two minutes into the first quarter. But when the camera pans over to Harry on the bench, focusing in on the way he’s grinding his teeth, his brows furrowed, Louis all but leaps out of his chair.

“They’re talking about him!” he practically shouts. “They’re talking about  _ my _ boy and they’re gonna put him in!”

“You doing alright still?” Liam asks with a laugh. “Need another drink?”

“Yes. And yes. Oh my God, guys, look at him. He’s so  _ serious _ .” He leans forward on his stool and almost falls off.

“You gonna climb into the screen, Tommo?” Zayn mutters.

“Fuck off. Oh,  _ fuck _ , they’re putting him in. Someone hold my hand. Wait, no, don’t touch me. Oh God, oh God.” Louis throws his head back and swallows the shot of tequila in front of him. “That was so gross, oh God, I’m gonna have a stroke.”

Harry takes his position on the court, his gaze set, his shoulders broad, and when the camera pans his body, zooming in on his feet - the commentators talking about his height - that’s when Louis notices Harry’s knees are shaking, just barely.

“My sweet baby is nervous,” Louis chokes out. “Oh, my heart. He looks so good, though, Christ.”

“One more comment like that and I’m leaving,” Zayn warns. “Choose your words  _ very _ carefully.”

“Look at him! He has the ball!” he yells. “ _ Look! _ ”

“Well, that  _ is _ the point of the game, Louis,” Liam says. “But he’s doing a good job at it.”

“Don’t patronize me. He’s doing amazing.”

“He’s been on the court for eight seconds.”

“And so far, he’s doing amazing. Watch your mouth.”

The rest of the game results in a tremendous amount of tension on Louis’ part, which, in turn, results in both Liam and Zayn throwing back six or seven shots each, just to be able to deal with Louis’ continuous wailing and cheering. Harry plays decently - it’s not the best Louis has ever seen out of him - but his 15-point contribution is certainly respectable and noticed.

Zayn walks him home after the post-game coverage ends, listening to Louis blabber the entire way back to his apartment about Harry’s layup in the third quarter, followed by a dunk only a minute later, and Zayn, bless him, just nods along.

“Yep, he was really something,” he says.

“And did you  _ hear _ the way his coach was talking about him at the press conference after the game? He said Harry is  _ special. _ ” Louis clutches his chest, stumbling over nothing. “Zayn, were you listening?!”

“Yes, Lou, you are sleeping with the MVP of all time. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Louis doesn’t bother changing into pajamas before he slips under the sheets, just peels himself out of his jeans and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing the dizziness from the alcohol would go away. It did its purpose. It mellowed him out enough that he didn’t absolutely lose his mind during Harry’s debut.

Ugh. Harry. If he was here right now, he’d get a glass of water for Louis to chug so he won’t wake up with a hangover. But the kitchen is  _ so _ far away.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, squinting when it lights up, blinding, almost. His thumbs seem to be moving on their own accord as he opens up his texts to type to Harry. Jesus, texting is  _ hard _ .

_ Yuo dd sooo good tniht I lvov you zayb and liam Gave me drunks!!! _

Nailed it.

Harry replies back a few minutes later, and Louis drops the phone on his face as he’s trying to uncross his eyes to read it.

“Fuck,” he mutters out loud to himself, scrunching his nose up and wincing at the soreness.

_ Thank you, baby. And thank Zayn and Liam for me, too. I miss you so much. The crowds seemed quiet tonight without you there. _

Louis tries  _ really _ hard to get his next text right, and he doesn’t actually remember hitting send, but when he wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache, he reads his text back:  _ aeyU so hatttu? _

He has no idea what he was attempting to say, and he can’t even begin to try to decipher it. It doesn’t matter, though, because Harry’s reply back is clear and to the point:  _ I love you, too, baby. Good night x _

* * *

The rest of autumn into the holiday season goes by much quicker than Louis intended on, and for that, he’s grateful. He gets to watch Harry play anywhere between two to four times a week, his stats improving with every minute on the court, his name circulating in the press more and more, and for the most part, it’s all positive recognition. Harry calls him after dinner on one of his off days, exclaiming, “LeBron James fucking mentioned me in an interview, saying I’m one of the top rookies to look out for! Me. LeBron James.  _ Me _ !”

“Harry, you play with legends now. Hell, you’re on your way to being one. Of course he knows who you are.”

“No, Lou, it’s  _ LeBron James _ .”

Louis laughs, bumping the dishwasher closed with his hip. “I heard you. That’s great, kid.”

“You were more excited when I told you I found Neil Patrick Harris’ doppelganger the other day.”

“Talk about  _ legend _ ,” he says, and Harry laughs.

It’s not the easiest thing, this new relationship of theirs. Louis isn’t able to find a spare weekend to make a trip back down to Miami, and Harry doesn’t have enough time to make it back to New York, either, not with such a demanding schedule. But they’re making it work the best they can. They make a point to Facetime once a day, no matter the length of the call, and as absurd as it is, Louis feels better whenever he can watch Harry on TV. He can pretend for a two hours that they’re back in college when Harry was doing his best to impress Louis in the stands, unaware that he didn’t need to do a single thing. Louis was already his from day one.

They’ve spent the past couple of Halloweens together, and this time, Louis can’t force Harry into doing something horribly embarrassing and couple-y. No salt and pepper shakers costumes this year, unfortunately. Instead, Louis dresses in his costume alone, doing his best to act like he’s overly excited to spend a night out with Niall at some sleazy bar downtown.

He Facetimes Harry about ten minutes before he’s set to leave, impatiently tugging at his costume, and when the screen comes to life with Harry’s face, he smirks.

“Hello, there.”

Harry smiles. “You heading out? I like your hair like that.”

“I can’t tell if you’re teasing,” he says, touching the headband.

“No, I’m serious. I love when your hair is pushed back.” He winks. “Your hair looks sexy pushed back.”

“How many times have I told you not to quote  _ Mean Girls _ to me?”

“The limit does not exist.”

“Oh my God.  _ Anyway _ .” Louis rolls his eyes. “Just wanted to show you my costume before I headed out. And to see what you planned on doing.”

Harry shrugs. “Not much. We have a game tomorrow so I can’t drink, really, but I might meet up with Colton at his place for a little while. He doesn’t live too far from me.”

He hums. “That should be fun.”

“Yeah. I miss you, too.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“No, but I can see it on your face.”

“Shut up.” Louis scrunches up his nose. “You’ll definitely be home for Thanksgiving, right?”

“Definitely. I can’t wait.”

“Me, neither.” He sighs, twisting his fingers in the fabric of his costume. “I have to get going, though. Niall’s probably downstairs waiting for me.”

“Show me your costume first!”

“Oh, right.” Louis sets the phone down on the bureau in their bedroom and takes a step back, flexing his arms in a way that’s subtle, but is definitely noticeable. “Here we are.”

“Louis.” Harry leans closer toward the phone, squeezing his eyes shut, just for a moment. “Are you…”

“Dressed as the Miami Heat small forward Harry Styles, yes.” He turns around to show off the name and number on his back, and if he arches his back a little bit to show off some  _ other _ assets as well, then so be it. “See?”

“I’m seeing, that’s for sure. They already make my name on a jersey?”

“No, they fucking don’t, and the merchandising department got an earful from me a few weeks ago. I had my own made.” Louis twists back around again, putting his hands behind his back, looking up through his lashes, and Harry groans.

“You had your own  _ made? _ Are you for real, Tomlinson?”

“Mmm, I think so.”

Harry groans again, sitting back in his chair. “You look so fucking good, I can’t even stand it.”

“Harry, you narcissistic bastard, I’m in  _ your _ jersey. How vain are you? You’re basically turning yourself on right now.”

“Excuse me if my boy wearing my name across his fucking perfect back does things to me,” he spits out. “What the fuck. I hate that I can’t touch you right now.”

“Well, if it helps,  _ no _ one will be touching me, seeing as I essentially branded myself as yours,” Louis says, pointing over his shoulder to where Harry’s last name is printed.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring, unblinking. Finally: “Alright, fuck this, I’m not going out with Colton. I’m just gonna stay here and masturbate myself to death. Have fun with Niall.”

Louis snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “Enjoy yourself.”

 

Less than an hour later, he receives a rather graphic photo from Harry, leaving little to the imagination, accompanied by,  _ Worst Halloween ever _ . Louis clears his throat, hoping no one notices the way his cheeks have most definitely gone red and his eyes have gone wide, and he sends back,  _ I beg to differ. _

* * *

Harry’s set to come home for five days for Thanksgiving, and Louis is through the roof about it. The night before he arrives, Louis finds himself  _ shampooing _ the carpet, as if Harry has ever cared about the cleanliness of their floors to that extreme before. It’s ridiculous, really, that Louis is putting this much effort into making sure their apartment looks nice when Harry has made it abundantly clear that all he cares about is getting Louis naked the second he walks through the door.

And Louis is on board with that plan, truly. He just wants Harry to be happy to be  _ home _ .

Liam calls Louis when he’s struggling to work the expensive floor cleaner he rented, getting tangled up in the cords, tripping and catching himself at the last second.

“What’s up, Payno, I’m a little busy,” he says into the phone.

“I’ll be quick. Do you wanna go out for dinner tomorrow night? It’ll probably be the only night the five of us will be able to get together while Harry’s home. I figured I could make reservations at that new Japanese place.”

“Uhh,” Louis mumbles, only half listening, trying to figure out where to add more cleaning solution into the cleaner. “Sure.”

“ _ Oh _ , I see,” he replies, sounding smug.

“You see what?”

“It’s Harry’s first night home. I get it.”

“What? Oh, Christ, Liam. No.” Louis kicks the cleaner, as if that’ll make it easier to work with. “We don’t have to put off dinner for a sex marathon, as you so subtly put it.”

“I can set the reservations for late.”

“Harry and I haven’t seen each other in a month. Believe me, we’ll be quick enough that we’ll probably be the first ones at the restaurant.”

Liam laughs. “Okay. Eight o’clock work?”

“Fine with me. See you then.” He doesn’t give Liam the chance to say anything else before he hangs up, cursing under his breath when he notices the cleaning solution has leaked all over the floor.

 

Harry’s mom offers to get him from the airport, which means Louis has to sit in their apartment, pretending he isn’t staring at the clock for the better part of an hour.

Or three.

He’s impatiently drumming his fingers along the couch’s armrest when he hears a thud from the other side of the door, followed by, “Baby, my arms are full, can you let me in?”

“Bossy,” Louis calls back, but he’s already walking - running - toward the door.

“How was that bossy?” he asks. “Lou, c’mon, I wanna kiss you.”

“You’re so gross,” he says, yanking the door open, smiling the second he sees Harry’s face. “Hi.”

“Enough talking.” Harry drops his luggage just inside the door, stepping over it, and grabs Louis’ face in his hands, slotting their mouths together before Louis can get another word in. Harry threads his fingers through Louis’ hair, pulling him in closer, and Louis digs his fingertips into the meat of Harry’s hips. He’s noticeably more in shape, though, more muscle and less for Louis to hang onto.

Louis starts walking backward, pulling Harry with him, their mouths never breaking contact. Harry whines, his tongue tracing the inside of Louis’ mouth, insistent, needy. He tastes like spearmint gum, his favorite kind, and Louis breathes him in, can’t believe how much he’s missed this in their own home, safe within the walls they painted together.

Harry breaks the kiss to kick off his boots and to murmur, “The carpet looks really good. Smells amazing in here.”

“Jesus, I love you,” Louis mutters, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “Bed.”

“Yes. Now.”

It’s frantic in the most comical way possible, Harry tripping out of his jeans, Louis almost ripping his own shirt off, and when Harry rocks down, his cock hard and pressing up against Louis’ thigh, Louis brain short circuits, needs more of it. It’s been too, too long and it already feels so  _ good _ , nothing even happening yet.

He sucks Louis off at his own leisurely pace, his movements teasing and fleeting, Louis rocking up into the heat of Harry’s mouth. Harry takes his time, pressing his fingers in the way he knows Louis likes it, craves it, murmuring words that have Louis’ body trembling without his permission. By the time Harry is fumbling to get his own cock out of his briefs, Louis is on the verge of begging.

Harry drapes himself over Louis, pushing in agonizingly slowly, breath stuttered out of him when he bottoms out, Louis involuntarily clenching around him.

“Missed you so much,” he chokes out, immediately ducking down to sear his mouth to Louis’. “Missed everything about you.  _ Shit _ , baby.” He rocks back and forth, the drag excruciating and perfect.

Louis can’t do anything other than dig his fingers into the nape of Harry’s neck, whispering his own secrets, demanding for Harry to go faster when it all started to build at once. Like a crescendo, he thinks, as his orgasm hits him, holding onto Harry to deal with the aftershocks, Harry not too far behind him.

He never has been.

 

Liam is waiting for them at the restaurant when they arrived, smug look on his face, and he looks down at his watch.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about being fast, huh? Might wanna talk to a doctor about premature ejaculation there, my friends.”

“Yeah, I’ll call yours,” Louis says right before he punches Liam in the stomach.

* * *

Harry doesn’t get another break until Christmas, and when he comes home, Louis’ heart aches, knowing it’s just another inevitable countdown until he has to leave again. He tries to appreciate their time together but it’s like there’s a nagging voice in the back of his mind, reminding him that January 3rd, he’s shipping off to Seattle for a mini series.

Goddamnit.

His sour attitude is obvious, and Harry does his best to keep Louis’ spirits up, bless his heart. He lets Louis be as clingy as he wants, lets him whine more than usual, lets him demand unreasonable requests like ice cream at two in the morning and spur of the moment drives upstate first thing in the morning. Harry gets that Louis is having a hard time, and he doesn’t question it. He’s obviously struggling, too.

Their goodbye’s at the airport are a little more drawn out than they have been in the past. Harry’s eyes are watery, Louis can’t stop whispering, “Shit, this sucks,” and even though they both know Louis’ work schedule isn’t going to be as hectic over the next few months, freeing him up to head to Miami quite a few times, it’s not the same as being together, as being home.

“Is it all it’s cracked up to be,” Louis mutters into Harry’s chest, tone bitter, “this whole superstar bullshit.”

Harry laughs, rubbing his hand up and down Louis’ back. “Right now it’s not. I don’t wanna leave you.”

He bites back  _ then don’t _ and instead says, “Just four weeks. Then I’ll be in Miami for a whole weekend.”

“I’m so excited. I can’t believe you haven’t seen me play in real life yet. I can’t wait to see you there.”

Louis nods, because it breaks his heart that he hasn’t had the time to make it his number one priority. “Gonna wear a cheerleader’s outfit and everything.”

“That honestly wouldn’t surprise me. Hey.” Harry leans back to get a good look at Louis’ face. “I forgot to tell you. First weekend in March, I have a three-game series against the Knicks. Means I’ll be in New York for a few days. And  _ then _ against the 76ers that Tuesday, in Philly. All pretty local to you. No planes necessary.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Please, as if I didn’t already ask for that day off  _ months _ ago. I’ll be there.”

Harry smirks, pressing a kiss to Louis’ temple. “It’s gonna be a good week, that week.”

“Yeah,” he nods, wiggling his way back into Harry’s arms. “Definitely better than this one.”

“Definitely,” Harry agrees.

 

Louis clings onto Harry like a koala as they walk through the terminal together, a few people making eyes at them, but Harry doesn’t tell him to let go. And when a few college students in Syracuse sweatshirts approach them, excitedly chattering about how they never missed one of Harry’s games during his senior year, Harry squeezes the back of Louis’ neck, reassuring, his hand warm.

“Can we get a picture?” one of the girls asks.

“Sure, no problem.” His voice sounds calm, so professional, and Louis is impressed. “By the way, have you met my boy? Because I think he’s gonna have to be in this picture, too.”

“Please,” she says, waving her hand around, “as if we don’t know who Louis is.”

 

They get in their last few words at security - Louis has to remind himself that Harry is going to Miami, not Antarctica - and suddenly, he’s feeling very angry. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. It’s been four months and he’s having trouble comprehending that they’re not even halfway through this season yet.

“What’re you thinking,” Harry asks, dragging his thumb across Louis’ cheekbone.

Louis is thinking a  _ lot _ of things. He starts with the most ridiculous. “It’s almost March.”

“Uh, it’s the first week of January…”

“It’s almost March,” he repeats, “and McDonald’s is gonna be selling Shamrock Shakes.”

“Okay?”

“You won’t be here.”

Harry - understandably - looks confused. “Do I… need to be here for you to get a Shamrock Shake?”

“ _ Yes! _ ” he says, stomping his foot. “It’s tradition!”

“When has it ever been a tradition for you and me to eat Shamrock Shakes together?”

“We did it last March! March 1st!”

“Lou,” Harry says, clearly trying to reason with him, “one time does not qualify as a tradition. I’m not even sure I remember that.”

“Well, how do you think traditions get started, hm? And it happened. It fucking happened.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding, and Christ, Louis doesn’t deserve him. “It happened.”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving  _ again _ , and I’m stuck here and you’re off living your dream and I’m, just.” Louis clenches his fists. “Not.”

Harry sucks in his cheeks, dropping his hands to his sides. “Please don’t make me feel bad. None of this is a surprise to you.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m just so frustrated that I’m in a long distance relationship with my boyfriend and I see him on TV more than I do in person and, like. I don’t know.”

“You’re not the only one dealing with the negatives, Louis.” He looks irritated, and Louis doesn’t blame him. “I live  _ alone _ . I don’t have my best friends there or my family or my  _ you _ and it’s not like it was in college, with you in the stands, screaming bloody murder. I have to work really fucking hard at this and I’m not the best anymore and I can’t keep it together for the both of us, Lou, I can’t.”

Louis swallows heavily, nodding. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That’s not fair for me to do that.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Look, I’m gonna be late for my flight. I don’t want to do this here. I’ll call you when I land, alright?”

“Alright.” He smiles weakly when he stands up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Harry’s mouth, quick and fleeting. “Can I tell you what else I’m thinking?”

He sighs. “Sure.”

“That apparently, everyone knows who I am.”

Harry breaks at that, smirking. “I knew that would get to your head.”

“It definitely did.” Louis puts his hand on Harry’s chest. “Have a safe flight.”

“Okay.” He kisses Louis one more time before he makes his way through the security line, looking back over his shoulder just once, waving briefly.

Louis curses under his breath the entire ride back home.

* * *

They talk about it a lot over the next couple of days, in between Louis’ meetings at the middle school and Harry’s practice. Louis tells him he was a jackass and just misses him in a way he wasn’t prepared for; Harry tells him he’s sorry for not initially understanding that, and that he feels guilty over wanting to be home all the damn time.

“How long do you think we can keep doing this?” Harry asks through the phone, his tone hushed. “Can we really do this long distance thing forever?”

The remote control to the TV drops from Louis’ hand. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Jesus, no. I’ll keep you any way I can have you, you know that. I’m just afraid this is gonna take a toll on us in the long run.”

Louis picks at a loose thread on the couch, his heart hammering in his chest. It’s hard hearing your fears spelled out for you. “I’m afraid, too.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” His voice is sure, but it wavers at the end. “I’ve always wanted you so much, and I’m never going to give you up. Ever. We need a solution.”

“Yeah, uh.” Louis clears his throat. “I didn’t want to seriously consider it until we knew where you’d be next year. Miami could have you sign another contract, or you could be traded somewhere else, right?”

“Right,” Harry confirms.

“I want to relocate,” he continues. “Wherever you are. But not until you have an idea of where you’ll be next year. I don’t want to give up my job and find one in Miami if you’re only there for another four months, you know?”

“You would move to Florida to be with me?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“You hate Florida.”

“Yeah, but it’s taken hostage of someone I love. So.”

“You’d really move away to be with me?”

“Yes, Harry, Jesus,” Louis says, flicking his hair out of his eyes. If Harry was here, he’d tell him to get a haircut. “Is… that okay?”

“It’s more than okay. I would never ask you to do that, though. You know that, right? We can find another solution if it means you keeping your job and your life.”

“I know you’d never ask. But this is what I want. And I usually get what I want. I got you, didn’t I?”

Harry laughs. “How many more days until I see you?”

“Mmm, like, 58?” he says, as if he doesn’t already know the exact number.

“Too many.”

Louis hums, resting his head against the back of the couch. “I agree.”

 

And that’s why Louis finds himself in Boston two weeks later with Zayn by his side, complaining as per usual. 58 days was too many to wait to see each other again. 14 was  _ much _ more doable.

“January in Boston,” Zayn groans, “it’s fucking freezing. Why couldn’t we have gone to Miami?”

“Because it was only a four hour train ride from New York to Boston and flights to Florida were  _ way _ too expensive for last minute.”

“Harry would’ve paid.”

“But it’s a surprise that we’re here. I didn’t want him to know. He thinks I’m still in New York, watching the game at home.”

“And it’s  _ not _ a surprise that my entire body is frozen. What is it, like, four degrees?”

“Zayn, shut up, it’s just as cold in Syracuse as it is here. And be nice. I paid for your train  _ and _ game tickets.”

“Gee, how blessed I am,” Zayn replies flatly.

They walk into the arena together, Louis standing out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of green jerseys and foam fingers with four-leaf clovers and leprechauns printed on them. His personalized Styles jersey essentially screams “I don’t belong here,” and he actually gets booed several times on the way to his seat.

“Wow, Boston fans don’t fuck around, huh,” he mutters. “A bunch of jackasses.”

“They’ve been pleasant to me,” Zayn says.

“Yeah, because you’re wearing a leather jacket. You’re practically invisible.”

“That was the point.”

They find their seats easily enough - behind the away team’s basket, about 12 rows back - and Louis ignores the glares from the fans around him, situates his poster on his lap. Some of the red glitter tinkles down to the floor, and Zayn groans.

“You really couldn’t be any less obnoxious, could you.”

“Why are you acting like you’ve never been to a basketball game with me before?” Louis asks, checking his face paint in his phone’s camera. Not smudged yet. “The point is to stand out.”

“Well, in that case, you’re doing an excellent job.”

“Thank you. Go get me a beer.”

Zayn stares at him blankly. “I think you have me confused for someone else.”

“And a hot dog,” Louis says, handing Zayn a $20 bill. “Buy yourself some nachos, or something. For your troubles.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, but he gets up, anyway, climbing over the row of fans to make his exist.

Louis gets as comfortable as he can in the plastic chair, wiggling around, checking out the arena. He’s only been to a handful of games as a supporter of the opposing team - all back in Harry’s college days - but never to this magnitude. There are about 17,000 people in here, all cheering loudly and stomping their feet, the volume already piercing, and the game hasn’t even started yet.

He’s gonna have to really kick it into gear to make sure he’s noticed. Something he fortunately he has a lot of practice with.

Zayn makes it back with an armful of food and drinks right as the lights go down, a spotlight directly on the away team’s tunnel, and Louis grabs his beer without looking away from the court, focused. Everyone boos when the announcer starts listing the Heat’s starting lineup, and Louis scoffs, mumbling, “These people wouldn’t know talent if it bit them on the ass.”

“Sure, Lou,” Zayn snorts.

And then Harry emerges, his hair twisted into a tight bun on the top of his head with an elastic headband in place, his shorts just slightly shorter than the rest of the players’, and as he runs down the sideline, high fiving his teammates, that’s when it dawns on Louis.

“Zayn. He’s fucking starting.”

He nods, dipping his tortilla chip into nacho cheese. “It appears that way.”

“He hasn’t started in a game yet this season. And I’m  _ here _ to see it. I’m gonna start crying.”

“Please don’t.”

Louis turns to the person to his left and points to the court. “Do you see that guy? Number 48?”

The guy shrugs. “Yeah, what about him?”

“That’s my boyfriend. And he’s  _ starting _ .”

“Well, that’s great,” he says before he turns back to the game, his tone completely contradicting his words.

Louis can’t rip his eyes off of Harry’s jersey, like he’s trying to be absolutely positive that’s really him out there, that he’s really starting. He’s just barely able to make out the slight twitch in Harry’s smirk when the announcer exclaims that it’s Harry’s first time in the starting lineup for the Miami Heat. He’s  _ so _ proud of that boy out there, he almost doesn’t notice the heckling going on around him, targeted at Harry’s team specifically.

The Celtics end up stealing the ball in the toss up, running down their end of the court, scoring easily. The noise inside the arena is deafening, and Louis rolls his eyes every time Zayn winces, complaining, “Should’ve brought fucking earplugs.”

There’s no shame in the way Louis gets to his feet a minute and a half in, waving his glittery poster around as if his life depended on it, shrieking whenever the players make their way down Louis’ end of the court. No one from either the Celtics or the Heat notice him, somehow, but that just means he has to try harder, be louder.

The people around Louis are  _ not _ pleased, including Zayn; Louis doesn’t care.

The score is 23-18 in the Celtics’ favor when Louis starts jumping up and down, hollering, his throat already a little sore. No one on the court has yet to acknowledge him, his cheering obviously lost amongst a sea of yelling. He’s starting to get frustrated, wondering if he has to resort to storming the court, break a few laws. But then, during a timeout, the grumpy man to Louis’ left nudges him with his elbow.

“Look up, 48’s boyfriend.”

“Huh?” Louis looks up to where the man is pointing - at the jumbotron - surprised to see he’s on the screen. Zayn is, too, and that’s when he realizes: Kiss Cam. He bursts out laughing, pinching Zayn’s cheek. “Zaynie, my dear, look.”

Zayn glances up, realization hitting him immediately. “Oh, fuck no, no way.”

“Don’t have to sound so offended, jeez.”

“I’m not kissing you, Louis.”

“I didn’t ask you to. You can unclench.”

It’s clear to whomever is operating the camera that Louis and Zayn have no intention of kissing, so naturally, they zoom in on them closer. The crowd starts chanting, a split between booing them for being Heat fans and urging them to do something, and Zayn slinks further into his seat, trying his best to hide.

“This is mortifying,” he mumbles.

Louis waves his free hand in the air, trying to explain that they aren’t together, but the cheering intensifies. He’s  _ this _ close to flipping off the camera guy so he’ll get the idea to move along, but then he remembers what’s written on his poster in big, red glittery letters.

He smirks, blush high on his cheeks, as he holds it up in the air, showing the cameraman he’s off the market, and it’s like the entire arena reads it at the exact same time. A laugh goes through the crowd, and when Louis looks over at the Heat’s huddle, he notices Cal grabbing Harry’s arm, telling him to look up at the screen. He does, jaw dropping seconds later.

Harry spins around so quickly, he almost falls over, Cal grabbing onto his arm and balancing him. His eyes frantically search throughout the crowd, combing through the sections to find Louis and his giant poster, and Louis keeps jumping up and down, making a complete and utter ass of himself, not caring in the slightest. And when Harry finally locates him, his face breaks out into the biggest grin Louis has ever seen, shaking his head, clutching at his chest.

Louis blows him an over the top kiss, and when Harry drags his hands across his face, probably trying to collect himself, Louis turns to Zayn.

“And you said this poster was inappropriate.”

Zayn pops the collar on his jacket, as if it’s a shield he can hide behind. “It is!”

“What’s wrong with ‘I’m sleeping with #48’?!”

“What  _ isn’t _ wrong with that?!”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Louis sits down, pleased, heart beating like crazy. “It worked.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

 

The Celtics end up winning; it’s a tight game, the final score being 101-97, and Louis is only stating facts when he says Harry carried the team. He absolutely dominated. It’s his best game of the season, without a doubt, and Louis waves his poster around in the air nonstop for the last eight minutes, even with the angry complaints of the people behind him.

“Maybe take a break, Tommo,” Zayn says. “You’re irritating them.”

“I need  _ everyone _ to know exactly who belongs to me.”

“Believe me. They know.”

Louis traipses down to the locker rooms with the pass Harry gave him at the beginning of the season, Zayn hanging back at the gift shop on the main level. He smiles at the players as they make their way down the hall, a few of them recognizing him and smiling back. It takes a bit for Harry to finally emerge - probably doing press - and when he sees Louis leaning up against the cement wall, he drops his duffel bag to the ground immediately, only needing three long strides until he’s standing right in front of him.

“Hi there, beautiful boy,” he murmurs, holding Louis by the hips.

Louis smiles, hooking his arms around Harry’s neck. His hair is wet, a few droplets of water rolling down the back of his neck. “Hello.”

“What brings you around to these neck of the woods?”

“Hmm, I dunno,” he shrugs. “Heard a cute boy would be playing here tonight. Wanted to check him out for myself.”

“Is that what the sign was all about? Just wanted to make sure you were noticed?”

“Pretty much.”

Harry bites his bottom lip, his dimple showing. “God, I’m so happy to see you.”

“Didn’t wanna wait until March,” Louis says, tightening his grip around Harry’s shoulders.

“So glad you didn’t.”

He brushes his thumb back and forth across the nape of Harry’s neck. “Incredible game, there, Styles.”

Harry shrugs. “We lost, I’m pretty sure.”

“Yeah, and you guys would have been obliterated if you hadn’t been out there. Seriously. Top notch.”

His smile is a little lopsided when he says, “Well, there was a boy in the stands who I was trying to impress. He had a poster for me and everything.”

“Sounds like a real character.”

“He is. One of the best.” Harry squeezes Louis’ hips. “Thank you for not bringing up the fact that I tripped twice on the court because I was staring at you.”

Louis pulls Harry closer, their foreheads touching, and so much of this is like deja vu from their days at Syracuse together, of Louis waiting outside the locker room in an arena that was much smaller but held just as much pride, if not more. “You’re welcome.”

“Almost got whiplash when I saw you.”

He nods, closing his eyes. “I remember, I was there. Hey, can you kiss me now?”

Harry doesn’t answer him, just surges forward, slides his hands from Louis’ hips, up his back, up to his neck, holding him tightly. Louis lets Harry manipulate his body, twisting him into his embrace, and it feels so natural, kissing in the dingy hallway of this Boston sporting arena. Harry’s arms are strong and his skin is hot to touch and these past two minutes are worth the past several months of missing Harry, the agony of feeling alone seeping out of his body with every swipe of Harry’s tongue, every press of his fingertips.

When they break apart, Louis admires the pinkness of Harry’s cheeks, the way his chest is rising and falling. Harry drags his hands down Louis’ chest, settling them at the hem of his pants.

“Thank you for being here. And for wearing my jersey. And for not kissing Zayn.”

Louis barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “I should’ve kissed him. He would have burst into flames and that would have been a great show to watch.”

He smiles, hooking his thumbs into Louis’ waistband. “Hey, do you and Zayn need to crash with me tonight? I’d love to keep you a little while longer. We play here again tomorrow night.”

“As much as I’d love that, Zayn has work early in the morning and I promised I’d head back with him.”

“No way I can bribe you?”

“There are an abundance of ways you could bribe me but I’m gonna go before it gets to that.”

“Okay, fine.” Harry presses another kiss to Louis’ mouth, lingering for a beat. “You have no idea how happy you made me today.”

Louis scrunches up his face, trying not to smile, but it’s a lost cause. Instead, he just kisses Harry again.

Zayn can wait a few more minutes.

* * *

Throughout the rest of January and February, Louis is able to make it down to Miami four times to visit Harry and watch him play on his home court. It’s like a breath of fresh air, being able to see Harry in front of him instead of on the shitty TV at Liam’s apartment, and it makes the distance between them seem more bearable. It’s definitely exhausting, packing up every other weekend to fly 1,400 miles, but it’s worth it to see the change in Harry’s energy once he spots Louis in the crowd, worth it once he has Harry alone in his high rise long after the arena’s lights have turned off, and Louis gets Harry all to himself.

In between visits, they do their best to keep the fun between them, even if sometimes seems downright impossible. Sometimes, on days they both have off, they find a TV movie to watch together over the phone, sometimes ordering the same takeout to make it feel like they’re actually sitting next to one another, fighting over the last slice of pizza. One time in particular, Louis woke up to a package at the front door, a brown box from UPS with a hilarious amount of seemingly useless items inside, like a jar of seashells from the beach a few blocks over from Harry’s apartment, the ticket stubs to the movie they saw together when Louis last visited, a vintage band t-shirt in Louis’ size “just because.” He reciprocated by shipping Harry a thick envelope of pictures of himself, some naked, some not, all of which made Harry call him in a rage, breathing out, “You make me  _ crazy _ .”  _ That _ resulted in spontaneous phone sex, where Louis could do almost nothing about, stuck in traffic, gripping the steering wheel and choking on the words, “Harry, I can’t do this, I’m in the Goddamn car.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Harry said, his voice low, sending shivers down Louis’ spine. “Just listen to me tell you about how I can’t stop thinking about that time I fucked you in the shower at your mom’s house. You tried so hard to be quiet but  _ everyone _ knew what you’d been up to. Just couldn’t wait until we got home, right?”

Louis honest to God started to contemplate veering left, driving off the highway and into a ditch. “Unfortunately.”

“Nothing unfortunate about how much you wanted me, good God, I’m so fucking lucky. Love how you look when I’m fucking you, love how thick you feel when I’m sucking you off.”

“Harry, Jesus Christ,” Louis whined, palming himself. “I’m seriously in the car, this isn’t fair.”

“I’m already close,” he groaned into the phone, “been staring at those fucking pictures for the past half hour. Not fair, baby.”

“What’re you, 15? Get too turned on from a few naked pictures?”

“ _ No _ , got too turned on thinking about the way you look at me when I finally get you naked, what it feels like when I finally fuck into you after it’s been  _ so _ long.”

“What the fuck.” Louis resisted the urge to punch the horn. “Talk about not fair. This is ridiculous.”

“Lou, baby…”

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. Fine. “Got myself off yesterday morning thinking about good it feels when you fuck me.”

“What else. Tell me what else.”

He could hear the sound of skin on skin through the phone and yes, this was how Louis was going to die, listening to his boyfriend jerk off, followed by rear ending the car in front of him at full speed. He groaned, clearing his throat. “Love when you fuck me bare, especially.”

“ _ Ah _ , Lou…”

“When I can really  _ feel _ it, feel you coming.” Louis whined, hitting the blinker unnecessarily hard as the traffic started to pick up, having a hard time balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “Miss you so fucking much.”

It didn’t take much more than that for Harry to let go, cursing through the phone, breathing heavily, whispering Louis’ name. And the whole encounter - surprise phone sex, of all things - was  _ so _ cruel, even by Louis’ standards, that he almost whipped the phone out onto the highway, never wanted to use the damn thing again.

At the time, Louis genuinely wanted to murder him, so fucking pissed his nympho boyfriend couldn’t control himself long enough for Louis to get home from work, Louis sporting an extremely obvious hard on as he got in his apartment’s elevator with his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Quinton. Now, though, it’s funny, so ridiculous that it makes him laugh whenever he thinks about it.

Louis’ favorite thing since being separated by seven states, though, was the morning he opened his front door at ass o’clock, Niall standing there with his hood pulled over his eyes, left hand behind his back. He shoved his phone at Louis, grumbling it was too early for these stupid antics, didn’t know why he gave in to this bullshit, and Louis was about to agree, pissed that Niall came knocking on his door at six in the morning. But then he could hear Harry’s voice coming through Niall’s phone - a Facetime call - looking as smug as ever.

“Okay, Niall, give it to him.”

Niall cursed and revealed what was behind his back. “Here,” he muttered, handing over a Shamrock Shake, looking moderately pleased with himself but mostly just exhausted.

Louis took it, confused, freezing cold,  _ tired _ . He made a face when he looked at the phone screen. “Harry, what’re you--”

“It’s March 1st. Couldn’t let our tradition die, right? Now, I know it’s not the same as me  _ actually _ being there but I figured we could do it this way.”

This kid. “Jesus, Harry, I love the hell out of you, but why did it have to be so fucking early?”

“Yeah, excellent question,” Niall shouted, now occupying the couch, laying flat down on his stomach, face in a pillow.

“Heading to Minnesota with the team in an hour. It was the only time I could do it.”

Louis couldn’t actually stomach the idea of ice cream from McDonald’s when the sun wasn’t even up yet, but it still made him smile, regardless, his heart lodged in his throat. “How’d you get Niall to agree to do this?”

Harry took a bite of his ice cream. “I told him I needed his help to keep our love alive and pure and I trusted no one more than him to do it.”

“He bought that?”

“No, which is why I promised we’d name our firstborn Niall.”

“That makes more sense.”

He made a face as he swallowed another bite. “This isn’t good, by the way.”

“I disagree,” Louis said, winking, “it’s all  _ very _ good.”

 

As much as Louis is starting to dread getting on that plane to Miami every couple of weekends, he prefers being there to the more local games in New York and Pennsylvania. The energy is different when Harry’s playing on his home court; it’s not Louis’ home, but with Harry there, the crowd rooting for him, erupting into applause every time he sinks a shot from just beyond half court, it feels like it is.

By May, Louis has managed to make it to about 25 games. It’s only a quarter of the total games played, and Louis  _ hates _ that he didn’t get to be front and center when Harry needed him most. Harry assures him it’s plenty, that he knows how much Louis always wants to be there even when he physically can’t, but that doesn’t stop Louis from shipping an enormous box to Florida filled to the brim celebratory items to congratulate Harry on a season well done.

“Louis, what am I supposed to do with 60 party hats?”

“I dunno, pretend I’m there throwing an after party for you, like after the semi-final win last year.”

Harry laughs. “That was quite a night, I’ll give you that.”

“Stupid fucking adult responsibilities. Wish I could watch your final game. I hate North Carolina.”

“Why, what’s wrong with North Carolina?”

“That’s where you’re ending your season and I can’t be there and you don’t get tickets to away games and now I hate that shitty ass state.”

“Well, as long as you have a good reason to hate it.”

Louis scoffs into the phone. “I know what I’m about.”

The final game ends up being Harry’s best game of the season, of course. Louis stares at the TV, entranced, can’t believe how much Harry has grown as player and as a person, overall, in the past several months. The changes are astonishing, and though he still isn’t the number one player on the team, he’s definitely someone the other players are actively looking out for. His defense is remarkable, his average point per game is higher than Louis has ever seen it, and when the last buzzer goes off, signaling another Miami win, the reporters immediately flock to Harry’s side, shoving microphones into his face. Louis is beyond grateful he chose to watch this game alone at his apartment, and that no one can see the way his eyes are watering, unblinking.

“This is Heidi from ESPN2 here with Harry Styles, the rookie from New York, how are you feeling after this big win tonight, Harry, securing a top spot on the playoffs?”

Harry smiles, brushing his hair out of his face, sweat dripping off the ends of the curls that didn’t quite make it into the bun. “I’m feeling really good. We worked hard all season to get where we are right now, and I couldn’t be prouder of what we’ve accomplished.”

“You should be!” she exclaims. “In second place for the season, well done. You ended up scoring 31 points this game, which is a career high for you so far.”

“So far,” Harry smirks, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Cocky bastard,” he says under his breath, turning up the volume.

“Do you go into games knowing it’s going to be a good one? Is there a certain mindset you have that keeps you motivated?”

Harry shrugs. “Not particularly. I always try to go in as positive as I can, but it’s hard to determine the way I’m going to play before I get on the court. It depends a lot on how the other team’s defense is. Luckily, we have a great coach with some extremely intelligent strategic thinking, so that always works in our favor.”

“As the only new addition to the team this year,” Heidi continues, “did you ever feel like an outsider? What’s been the hardest adjustments for you, coming from college ball to this?”

He swallows, obviously thinking. “The team welcomed me in very quickly. I never felt like I was being hazed or shoved aside. I feel fortunate that everyone was so eager to work with me so quickly. And, uh, hardest adjustment, for sure, was leaving behind my friends and my family. They’re all massive supporters of my career so it’s a little disappointing to not be able to look out into the crowd and see them all there at every game, like I’m used to. They’ve come to some games, but it’d be impossible to get them down here for every game. My boyfriend, too. He’s been to the most but he has a life. He’s got his own job and I can’t steal him away from it as much as I’d like. That’s definitely the worst part, though. Not seeing Louis. He’s… ridiculous. And is always so encouraging.”

Louis’ shoulders slump. If he was there, he’d already be in the party hat, win or lose.

“So, it’s safe to say he’s your biggest motivation?” she prompts, and Harry takes the bait easily.

“You have no idea. He watches every single game, even if he’s at home, even if it isn’t live and he’s watching a recording. He always calls me after to tell me how proud of me he is, and then he evens it out with some pointers and feedback.” Harry laughs, shaking his head. “I play the game for myself, I really do, but the longer we’ve been together, the more I realize I’m doing a lot of it for him, too. I want to be my best for him, in whatever we do. He deserves that. He’s just so, so good, even when he’s not.” He looks directly into the camera, licking his lips. “Hi, Lou.”

Louis chokes, hates Harry more than he’s ever hated anything. And he knows Heidi and Harry are still talking - who’s even listening at this point - but it doesn’t stop him from grabbing his phone and texting Harry as quickly as his thumbs will move.

_ What gave you the fucking right to do that embarrassing interview. I hate you. I’m sobbing. You did so well tonight. I love you so much. _

* * *

The first playoff game is in Miami and Louis is able to sneak away from work for a full three days, which means he gets to see two back-to-back games. It’s potentially the last time he’ll ever have to come down here - if they lose the series, if Harry gets traded to another team for the next season - so he does his best to embrace the sticky, miserable Florida air, the airport that he’s seen the inside of more than his own bedroom back home, it seems. This is it. Go Miami.

He’s waiting for his suitcase to drop down onto the carousel (“Yes, I do need to check a bag for two nights, I have a lot of art supplies, thank you very much,”) when he hears the most obnoxious sound behind him, growing louder with every second. At first, he thinks it’s a malfunction on the PA system, but then it dawns on him, what that incessant noise is.

Cow bell.

He turns around to see Harry approaching him, ringing it as if he’s leading a fucking parade, and Louis just shakes his head, smirking.

“I would’ve noticed you without the bell, I promise,” Louis says, laughing.

“Funny, I think I’ve said the same thing to you before.” Harry leans in to kiss him, smile on his face. “Last trip down here, baby.”

“Maybe.”

“Right. Maybe.” He rings the cow bell again, louder this time. “I was gonna paint my face, too, but I’m not sure what colors you represent.”

Louis smirks, grabbing his luggage off the carousel when it finally makes its way around. “Every color. I’m the Goddamn galaxy.”

Harry grips the back of Louis’ neck and pulls him in close. “I know you’re kidding, but I’m not. That’s really what you are.”

He looks up through his lashes, biting back a smile. “Alright, lover boy, let’s get out of here. I have some posters to make.”

 

They win both games easily with a 12-point lead in game number one, a slaughter with a 23-point lead in number two. Sunday morning, Harry has an early practice, and Louis sleeps in, just starting to wake up when Harry gets back to the apartment to shower.

“Get up,” he instructs, “we’ve got a busy day today.”

Louis groans and pulls the blankets back up over his eyes. “‘m tired. I drank too much last night.”

“Well, whose fault is that. You were like a one man party, celebrating for the entire time all on your own.”

“You were being boring, I had to take shots for the win on your behalf.”

“I wasn’t being boring, you jackass, I can’t drink during playoffs.”

“Excuses.”

Harry yanks the covers off of Louis, leaving him naked from the waist up and yelping. “ _ Up _ .”

“Fuck you. Today is already terrible.”

“Sure, sure.”

Today, inevitably, turns out to be fantastic. They do a lot of the touristy things they haven’t gotten the opportunity to do yet, seeing as they’re always locked inside the walls of the American Airlines Arena. The sand at the beach is powder soft, the trails throughout downtown are gorgeous, and when Harry begs Louis to pose for a caricaturist, Louis gives in almost instantly, can’t say no to that look on Harry’s face.

Later, they sit down for dinner at a restaurant overlooking the city, the buildings’ lights twinkling against the navy blue sky, and Louis whistles when he looks around, draping his cloth napkin across his lap.

“This restaurant isn’t as nice as that place with the peanut butter burger. Sorry, Styles.”

“Okay, but at least the restaurant supplied the candles this time.”

“That’s true.”

“Anyway, I figured this could be our place. You know, the place we go to whenever we’re both down here together.”

Louis smiles, glancing over the drink menu. “But what if we don’t have to come down here anymore?”

“Then we’ll find another spot. Does that work?”

“Yeah, I think that most definitely works.”

 

When they get back to Harry’s place several hours later, Louis a little tipsy and Harry’s hands a little warm, they fall into the sheets together. Harry presses Louis into the mattress with an even roll of his hips, his words sweet and his mouth hot. Louis can barely keep his eyes open, obsessed with Harry, obsessed with this.

If they have to come back here, if this is where Harry stays, then it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Not by a long shot.

* * *

The day Harry’s contract ends, he has three other teams across the U.S. putting up offers to steal him away from Miami, can see the potential and are desperate to add him to their roster. The money on the table is outrageous, and it has Louis’ jaw dropping when he realizes just how wealthy Harry truly is.

“Jesus, nothing wrong with being good at a hobby, huh,” he jokes, punching Harry on the arm.

Harry nods. “Yeah, no shit, hey, what kind of new car do you want?”

“I used to think the perks of dating you was the fact that you do all my laundry but, nuh uh, it’s this.” He says it in a way that Harry knows he’s teasing, because money has never been the foundation of their relationship, and it never will be. Serious time. “Don’t pick the one with the most money, Harry. Pick the team you want. Or stay with Miami. You love it there.”

“It’s good there, yeah. I dunno.” He shrugs. “I know the 76ers didn’t offer the  _ most _ money but. I think I want to be there.”

Louis’ eyes go wide. “Don’t fuck with me, Styles. Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I love the coach’s mechanics, I love the fact that I would most definitely be a starter every game… I love that it’s one state over from you. I think that’s most of it, really.”

“Okay, like.” He tries to keep his voice even but it’s already a lost cause. “I don’t want you to decide based on  _ me _ . I want you to go where you know you’ll be happiest, as a player and as Harry.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m happiest as a player, and as myself, when I can have you around. And now you don’t have to relocate and none of my family will be too far away, either. I don’t really see anything negative about this. I’m mostly just feeling fucking lucky that they offered me a contract.” He smirks. “For four years.”

“Shut up!” He thinks his brain might explode. “Four years?!”

“When you and my parents came to watch me play there back in March, how long did it take you to get there?”

“We took a train, and it was about three hours.”

“Not bad. Now, imagine it on a plane. Totally doable. For whenever you can make it, of course.”

Louis shakes his head, heart pounding. “Should it really be this easy?”

“Probably not. But don’t question it.”

“I won’t.” He blinks a few times, trying to comprehend how  _ lucky _ he is, in every aspect. “Guess I gotta make a new ‘Styles’ jersey.”

Harry smiles, nodding. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“And a new spot to call ours.”

“That, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. The King burger is a real thing.


End file.
